


Wearing a Pirate's Face

by AlrightGuy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Gen, Hawke is a mob boss, poderous Femslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 13:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10855242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlrightGuy/pseuds/AlrightGuy
Summary: Isabel Hawke works to carve out a place for herself in Kirkwall's underworld, resorting to blood magic to dominate where so many others fail. In the midst of this struggle, she meets a Pirate that looks exactly like her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost from a 3 year absent writer, I'm posting some of his stuff from fanfiction.net over here so that it might get some love.
> 
> His profile: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2359403/Souplog

"Boss, a representative from the coterie is here to see you." He sounds nervous.

Hawke doesn't look up from her ledger, carefully dipping her quill into the inkwell. She holds up her sleeve as she writes tine figures for the Red Irons accounts. How did Meeran even have this group running for so long, she wonders, with such lackluster record-keeping?

"Do they have an appointment?"

"Er, no…"

"They don't have an appointment," she says with finality, "kindly ask them to leave"

"Er, I don't think they'll be very receptive to that, ser"

"I don't care whether they're receptive or not. Have them make an appointment. I'm busy"

But of course things don't usually work out to Hawke's convenience. An angry-looking woman pushes Hawke's bumbling underling out of the way as she barges into the office, accompanied by a small cadre of thugs. "We will not be made to wait Serrah Hawke. The coterie does not tolerate this kind of disrespect." The thugs move to surround Hawke's considerable desk.

The Fereldan sighs, removing her glasses and placing them delicately on the mahogany. She rubs her eyes before tiredly looking up at the intruder. "This is highly irregular"

The Coterie representative nods to one of her men. He pushes Hawke's underling out of the door and closes it, locking it from the inside. "We have business to discuss, Serrah Hawke"

Hawke hates how people overuse "Serrah" when they're being rude. "Did you want to hire the Red Irons? If so, this melodrama was not required"

"No, we have business with you, specifically." She slams a poster down on Hawke's ledger, effectively smudging the still-drying ink. Some of it bleeds through, though the face staring up at her is no less striking.

"What is this?"

"A picture of a thief sighted interfering with Coterie operations. Look familiar to you?"

Hawke sighs and scrutinizes the poster. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No joke, serrah. I do not joke"

"Then I don't know what to tell you. I don't know this person"

"Impossible. It is you"

"No, it is not. I do not wear that ridiculous jewelry, nor do I wear a kerchief. My hair is also not nearly that long"

"It is clearly you, woman!"

"It is not"

The Coterie woman slams her fist on the table in anger. After a few seconds, the anger washes visibly from her demeanor, though not without considerable effort on her part. She withdraws her fist, steepling her hands. "Regardless of whether or not you admit it, the Coterie has marked you responsible for the loss of certain acquisitions that we would like returned"

"Fabulous. But I didn't steal from you"

"You misunderstand, serrah. This is not a trial. I am not a judge. I have superiors who have ordered me to exact retribution, and to exact it from you specifically. You can return what you owe now, with a sizeable donation of good will. Or we can simply take what is owed"

Hawke sighs, "How much were these assets worth?"

"Several thousand sovereigns. The good will fee is five-hundred extra. The fee for the disrespect we received at the door," she fixes Hawke with a steely glare, "another five-hundred"

Hawke peels the poster off of her work, grimacing at the ruined page. She taps her finger against the table in a way she feels coveys the right amount of thoughtfulness. Finally coming to a decision, she makes as if to stand up, but one of the thugs, now behind her, clutches her shoulders tight, and shoves her back down into a seated position.

"We can do this the easy way," he rumbles, "or the hard way"

Hawke bristles. As a person, she sits atop a slightly higher horse than most people, and does not suffer indignities. She turns to look at this most recent offender and her eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

"It is a good thing you locked this door," she says, as she launches the man into the wall with her mind. He slides to the floor in a boneless heap. The other thugs move to attack, but find themselves frozen in place, their limbs rendered suddenly uncooperative.

"Let's try this again," says Hawke, standing. In her clenched fist is the blade of one of her letter-openers, gripped so hard that it has drawn blood. It glows faintly in the gloom. "I am a woman of considerable patience," she says, retrieving her glasses and perching them atop her nose in a way she feels is suitably dignified. "But when pushed, I become considerably lessgracious." She reaches out. A staff, previously mounted over the fireplace, flies to her hand. She nears the fallen man and squats to meet his face.

He looks up at her, dazed.

Her placid expression cracks as one of her eyes twitches. Once, twice. Her mouth extends into a disgusted grimace. Her entire face contorts into a rictus of unfathomable rage and she bludgeons the man's head in with the weighted end of the staff.

"Do not!" Smack! "Talk!" Crunch! "To me!" Smash! "About disrespect!" Thwack! Crunch! Bash! Splorch! Squish! Squish! Squish!

She stops herself when she notices the man is dead, and most of his face has been reduced to paste. Panting, she turns to the Coterie representative. She stares into her eyes until her ragged breathing returns to normal. "I am not Meeran. The Red Irons does not have the same relationship it used to with the Coterie. Your presumption offends me." She stares in tense silence, "IT. OFFENDS ME!" An enraged mind-blast has the contents of her desk flying all over the room. Frozen coterie thugs are flung to the ground, along with hundreds of erratically fluttering sheets of paper. All except for the representative, who finds herself, once again, mobile.

She looks back up at Hawke, horrified, though she she has the wherewithal not to completely lose her composure.

"Now leave. The door is unlocked." The representative checks. It is indeed unlocked. She hesitates. "Your men are mine now, leave, or stay forever"

The representative leaves.

Hawke considers making the thugs into blood thralls, but decides she has enough of those lying about already, and instead has the lot of them disintegrated into so much red mist. By design, it is a slow, painful process.

Alone again, Hawke looks at the poster of her doppel-ganger. "Willem!" she calls for her secretary. The impeccably-dressed gentleman enters and studiously ignores the new blood stains decorating every wall of the office.

"Yes madam?"

"I'm leaving for now. Tell my brother to tend to things when he gets back. Until then, you are in charge"

Willem bows, 'Of course, madam"

Hawke considers telling Willem not to call her that. The man really takes too much dramatic license in her employ. A vain part of her decides to let him keep at it. What is life, after all, without a touch of whimsy?

"Have someone collect the blood while I'm away. In glass phylacteries this time, not clay pots."

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

"Aveline"

Aveline looks up from her own collection of paperwork, "Good to see you Hawke, though perhaps it would be better if next time we met somewhere more discreet. People would disapprove of me consorting with known crime lords"

Hawkes raises a genuinely confused eyebrow, "I am not a crime lord"

Aveline looks at her, more than underwhelmed. She considers contesting the point, but knows that Hawke, in her own simple way, truly believes that she is innocent of wrongdoing. "Very well, you are no crime lord. People would disapprove either way"

"No-one saw me come in"

"Impossible. There is a crowd outside waiting for an audience with the viscount. I had to shove my way through them on the way to work, it was terrible"

Hawke shrugs

"Even if you didn't go through the crowd, someone would have recognized you with your black clothes, even if you are wearing that silly hood that makes you look like a storybook villain"

"This hood is not silly. I happen to think it looks quite fetching on me. And no one saw me come in because I used magic"

Aveline sighs. Of course, magic. Living with the Hawkes during their initial months in Kirkwall considerably desensitized her to the Elder sibling's questionable overuse of magic, even its more questionable applications. It took some serious adjustment learning to look the other way, knowing the sort of things the girl got up to.

Especially since Aveline is the guard captain.

"Right, well I assume this isn't a friendly visit, so what can I help you with?"

"Every visit with you is a friendly visit Aveline. It…just so happens I have some business as well"

Aveline's gaze reflects the staggering magnitude of how unsurprised she is. "Let's have it"

Hawke hands her the poster. "Do you know who this is?"

"A private bounty. On you apparently"

"That isn't me"

"Looks an awful lot like you"

"Be that as it may"

"I did think it strange that you were wearing jewelry. And makeup. It actually looks pretty good. You should consider accessorizing more often." Aveline reads the charges and makes a low whistle, "The coterie. Whoever your twin is, she pissed off some powerful people"

"I don't have a twin. I have a scoundrel with a passing resemblance to me and I need her restrained"

"I won't have you punishing people willy nilly Hawke, not in this city. Much less 'restraining' them. Whatever that means with you"

"Never to anyone who doesn't deserve it," murmurs Hawke, "and if this one is messing with the Kirkwall underworld then she probably deserves it"

Avline doesn't bother to point out the hypocrisy. "Very well," she sighs, knowing better than to argue. It was like arguing with an eloquent child, after all. "I don't know who this is but I know someone who can point you in the right direction"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

"Is this where I can find," Hawke consults the note Aveline gave her,"Vaw-rick Tethras?"

Corf notches an eyebrow, "You mean Varric? The dwarf?"

Hawke nods, "I suppose so"

Corf nods towards the back of the tavern where Hawke spots a dwarf; his back is turned to her as he gazes at the fire. As she draws closer to him she notices that he is hard at work recording transactions in a sizeable ledger. Her respect for him grows a little; she can always find some respect in her dwindling well for the unappreciated accountants of the world.

Hawke does not hide the sound of her footfalls as she draws close. He turns, relaxing when he spots her.

"Oh, Isabella. I almost didn't recognize…" he trails off, "you're not Isabella"

"Indeed I am not," she pulls up a chair, surreptitiously dusting it off with force magic before taking a seat.

"I'll say. The woman I know isn't nearly so…prim"

Hawke ignores this, "I was told that a Varric Tethras could help me find this person," she shows him the poster. "And it appears you can"

"Maybe," he says. Straight to business. Hawke appreciates that in a person. Varric leans in closer, scrutinizing her, "I must say though, the resemblance is uncanny. Are you a relation? Her sister, perhaps? Isabella never mentioned any sisters. Well, she never mentioned family at all but I just assumed…"

"Is Isabella the one in the poster?"

"Do you know her by any other name?"

"No. She is a stranger to me"

"Then I guess you aren't sisters," he rubs his chin thoughtfully, "it really is uncanny though. You even sound like her." A smile materializes as he keeps watching her. "If we are to do business then I need to know who you are"

Hawke nods, "That is fair. My name is Isabelle-"

"Your name is Isabelle?" he interrupts, "I'm getting spooked out now"

She continues, slightly peeved and trying to show it, though not too much. That would be unsightly. "Isabelle Hawke"

"Hawke? You wouldn't happen to be the Hawke who runs the Red Irons would you?"

"That would be me, yes"

"Astounding! I used to have an eye on your career you know. I was going to approach you with a business opportunity but…I guess you aren't hurting enough for money nowadays. It's strange though that I never saw your face until now"

"You were following my career?"

"Indeed. What with your meteoric rise through the ranks, to running the company entirely, not to mention your origins as a Fereldan refugee; the story practically writes itself don't you think?"

Hawke is confused, "Story?"

"Ah. I'm sorry. I get ahead of myself sometimes. While I am indeed a savvy businessman and Kirkwall's resident jack-of-all-trades, I am first and foremost a storyteller. You just happened to interest me both as a business partner, and a subject of a good story"

Hawke is unused to being caught off-guard, and so swiftly moves to bring the conversation back on track. Truth be told, she is fighting down a blush. To be the protagonist of a story like the ones she used to read in Lothering? The possibility appeals to her vanity.

"Er, be that as it may," she coughs, pointing to the poster, "can you help me find this Isabella or not?"

Varric smiles, shaking his head. He knows when someone is preening and trying not to show it. "I don't know where she is Hawke. Though depending on your reasons for finding her, I might be able to point you in the right direction"

Hawke scrutinizes him, dismissing the idea of just plucking the information from his head. Despite herself, she does like him. "Maybe I'm curious. She does look just like me after all," she tries not to show her distaste at admitting those last words.

"Could be. But I know your type Hawke. You don't do things like look for dangerous people just because you're curious"

"Very well. Read the poster. She's wanted by the coterie, and the coterie has been blaming me as of late. I can rebuke their misunderstandings for only so long before they become too much for me to handle"

Varric resumes his thoughtful chin-rubbing, "Isabella is my friend. Do you plan to give her up to them?" His expression lets her know that he'll be able to tell if she's lying.

"No, I simply want to meet her. Advise her to stop making things inconvenient for me"

He looks at her for a long while. "I don't know. I'll need to think about it. Why don't you join me for a drink while I mull things over?" His offer is so congenial that Hawke would feel uncomfortable refusing.

"Very well. I will not be drinking too much though"

The two of them sit down and somehow manage to hit it off. He talks about his businesses in the city and she talks (sparingly) about her own. By the third round of ale they are laughing about how infuriating brothers can be (Hawke doesn't outright laugh though, she sort of amusedly giggles under her breath).

"Let me get the next round, Varric. I would feel uncomfortable being further in your debt"

"If a pretty woman is trying to buy me a drink, what kind of callous bronto would I be to refuse?" She has no idea what a bronto even is, but she chuckles anyway.

As Hawke is walking back to their table, flagons in hand, she pauses in mid step. Uproarious laughter erupt from a nearby table huddled with a gaggle of seven drunks. They are loud enough to jumble her thoughts, and now that she consciously hears them she can't un-hear them. Their merriment is like incessant buzzing at the surface of her eardrum.

In her pocket the letter-opener begins to heat up as a wave of anger flows languidly through her body. With shaking fingers Hawke fantasizes about what it would be like to sink it into each of their loud mouths, watching them scream as it melts through their digestive system, enjoying finally, the reward of silence.

She shudders. What was it father always told her to do in the face of irrational anger? Count to ten. One, two, three, four…Hawke's slowly walks back to the table, counting to ten in quiet murmurs. The rage subsides, but the men won't shut up and she knows that if she doesn't get away from the noise then she will do something rash to make her fantasy a reality.

How many of them are there? Seven? Seven realities, seven colons burnt to a crisp.

She deposits both drinks on the table, but makes no motion to sit down. Varric catches her glance back at the loud table, but makes no comment. "I apologize, but I have to go now, Mr. Tethras. It was truly a pleasure making your acquaintance."

"What? You're leaving already?" She hands him her card. "What is this?"

"Business card. For the Red Irons. With my contact information. Let me know if you ever consider me for that partnership you mentioned. It sounds interesting."

"A card huh? That's actually a pretty good idea"

She turns to excuse herself.

"Wait, Hawke!"

"Yes?"

"Hold on a minute. How…how about we go back to my private chambers? We still have a lot to talk about," he notes her hesitancy, "I think I have some information that might help you find that sister of yours"

She feels awkward, not only because she was about to excuse herself but because she suspects Varric knows why she was going to excuse herself. She regards him curiously. So genuinely curious is she that she forgets to look appropriately pensive. Finally she nods, "She isn't my sister but…very well. Lead the way"

He is, after all, the first person in a long time who has made a good first impression. The anger subsides completely, and she follows him to his room.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Anger is Isabelle Hawke's greatest weakness. Even her best-laid plans can be quite waylaid by her considerable anger problems, though until she starts indiscriminately magic-ing everyone to death, it can at least be somewhat funny to watch.

"How can this hat be worth thirty sovereigns! It has no practical use!"

"It's not about what you can use it for," the clerk desperately pleads, "it's about style"

"That makes no sense!" She slams her fist on the counter, crushing the wood, "What value has style in a life-or-death situation?"

The clerk stifles his own bout of anger. He had just wasted an afternoon explaining the finer points of fashion to someone who lacks the ability to comprehend them. "It has no use whatsoever, it's only supposed to look good"

Hawk scrutinizes him before disgustedly tossing the hat onto his head and retreating back into the shop. The clerk fumes, but doesn't try to kick her out, even if she has been lurking in there for several hours already, creeping the bejeezus out of him. He can't quite summon the guts to ask her to leave. He shivers and prays to the maker that she leave soon.

Hawke peruses.

These things are utterly distasteful, and much too expensive. Who would spend so much money on such nonsensical headwear? It boggles the mind! She would not even be here if Varric's account (and reports from her own agents, verifying those accounts) did not place Isabella in this exact hat shop, at around this time, on this day of the week.

So far her waiting had been fruitless.

Three damn hours in this stupid shop and she had nothing to show for it!

She stops and makes herself count to ten. The anger recedes. She withdraws to a corner of the store to steady her breathing. The store bell rings, signaling that someone has just stepped inside. Isabelle doesn't notice.

"This place has nice hats doesn't it?"

Hawke isn't overly-fond of casual chit-chat, but hearing it in her own voice is disconcerting.

"Uh," she rasps, "yes, it does"

"I come in here a lot, though I've never actually seen another customer"

Hawke is glad she has her hood drawn up. "Um…okay?"

"I'm mostly here to look really, I can't quite afford any of this"

"I wouldn't buy it anyway. I don't see the point in such ridiculous headwear"

The woman with her voice laughs, and Hawke resists the urge to turn and look at her. Seeing her illustrated on a poster is one thing, but to actually verify the resemblance…the temptation is staggering.

"Wow, you're kind of a tightass aren't you?" Hawke can feel her get closer, "If you don't like hats then what are you doing in a hat shop?"

Dramatic timing is something very near and dear to Isabelle Hawke's heart (though she would never admit it), and it is with this in mind that she turns and removes her hood (with suitable flourish). "I'm looking for you," she says in her normal voice. The accent is different but the intonation is the same. The face is the same. The skin-tone is the same.

Hawke's hair is shorter, messier; shooting out in several directions. This, and her black robes, makes a stark contrast between the two women, but the face is unmistakably the same.

The other woman's eyes widen, a foot reflexively moving backwards, but she doesn't flee. Curiosity stills her, and Hawke can see it burning in her eyes.

"Hello. Who are you now?"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

"You know, I thought that if I ever met my long-lost twin sister," Isabella smiles at her own joke, "we would be doing something more interesting than sitting in her office discussing what she does and doesn't want me doing"

Hawke sighs and puts down the pen she had been using to write the contract.

I should have killed her, Hawke thinks, or at least shipped her out of Kirkwall. If Hawke had known that Isabella was incapable of taking anything seriously, she might have done either of things. But no, she gave in to curiosity, and as a result she has a pouting, buxom pirate in her office making vaguely insulting remarks about her.

"It's amazing," Isabella says, leaning over the desk and ignoring all of Hawke's personal space to cup one of her cheeks, "you look exactly like me"

"Please stop touching me"

Isabella ignores her, poking and prodding with the gusto of a cat fluffing its pillow, "Maybe you are my sister. Wouldn't that be something? My mother sold you at an early age to your parents"

"Is that what happened to you?"

This strikes a nerve, as the poking and prodding stops, but it is immediately covered by a veneer of amusement. "Point taken. Let's not get too personal just yet." Apparently "personal" does not apply to physical contact as Isabella proceeds to grope Hawke's breasts. Either because the person doing the groping is her doppelganger, or for some other reason, Hawke does not succumb to instinct and blast the woman away. "I guess we're not entirely the same," Isabella croons, giving a tiny squeeze.

Hawke removes the offending hands. "Could you please take this seriously?"

"I will precious! But come on! This is amazing! We should, talk, swap stories!"

"You are making things very difficult for me"

Isabella rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine, I got you into a little trouble with the Coterie. I'll try harder not to get caught next time. There! Business concluded"

Hawke leans back and treats Isabella to an un-amused grimace. "Very well. What did you want to talk about?"

"I don't know, tell me about yourself. You can skip where you're a boring business-woman, I already figured that part out"

Hawke bristles at having her business so trivialized. "Actually I'm the leader of a mercenary group called the Red Irons"

"Ah, that's a lot more exciting than I thought. I'm a pirate captain, if you were wondering"

That gets Hawke's interest, "Really? You have a ship then?"

Isabella frowns, "You have a way of being a wet blanket you know that? No, I don't have a ship anymore"

"So you're a pirate captain without a ship?"

"Er…yes"

"So…"

"Fine! I'm not much of a pirate captain right now! There were extenuating circumstances. Ugh, why am I trying to impress you anyway?"

"What kind of circumstances?"

"The stupid kind." Realization dawns on Isabella's face, "Wait a minute! You," she points at Hawke, "you can help me!"

"What?"

"This is perfect! I have a duel tonight, and I need someone to watch my back. You have the manpower to make sure I'm not ambushed"

"Can you pay me?"

Isabella hesitates, "Er…how much do you charge?" Hawke rights down a figure on a piece of papers and slides it across the desk. Isabella takes one look at it and then slides it back. "I can't pay you. But I'll be very grateful?"

Hawke sighs, "Then I don't think you'll be getting any help from the Irons. But…" and she doesn't even know where the words are coming from, but she says, "I can help you. Personally. I suppose." And as soon as she's said it she wonders what she's thinking.

"You? No offense, but what help could you be?"

Hours later Hawke is wading hip-deep in the blood of the Hightown ambushers, freezing enemies and pulverizing them into dust with force magic. On this particular expedition she has brought her impromptu apprentice, a Dalish outcast named Merrill. By virtue of her own use of blood magic, Merill came to be under Hawke's wing after a brief foray into Sundermount, and since then had harried the older mage until she agreed to teach her about the finer points of blood magic.

Currently, Merril is doing a respectable job shooting rock and electricity to pick off ranged opponents. Isabella, on the other hand, flits in and out of battle to stab enemies in the back, moving on before being targeted. In an ideal world, thinks Hawke, we would have Carver with us to soak up damage, but he is away on assignment and couldn't make it.

So the job falls to Hawke, though barriers and rock armor can keep her protected from a hail of swords and arrows for only so long. It isn't until a swordsman almost impales her that Hawke thinks to herself, fuck it, and decides to drop the pretense and go straight into the blood magic.

She squeezes attackers from the inside and reduces them into puddles of sizzling fat and entrails. The remaining attackers turn tail to run, but she catches them in a gravity well, yanking them into a miasma of raging death hemorrhages.

Merill moves to Hawke's side, making sure she is alright.

"Where did you cut this time?"

"Stop fussing, I didn't use my blood"

"But you're hurt aren't you? Oh creators, an arrow! I can't believe I didn't stop that in time, I'm so sorry!"

Hawke pulls out the arrow, grimacing at the pain but otherwise makes no sound. "It's alright, let me just…" healing spells aren't her forte, and so she needs to down an entire bottle of lyrium to muster the energy to cast one. "Ah…there we go"

"I'm really very sorry!"

"Stop apologizing Merrill. It gets annoying after a while"

Merrill is visibly mortified, "I'm sorry"

Hawke musses the elf's hair in reassurance. "Don't worry about it. You did well Merrill"

Isabella appears at her side, looking impressed, "And to think I questioned your capabilities. That'll teach me to make snap judgments about a pretty face," Isabella cackles, "and yours is a very pretty face indeed."

Hawke rolls her eyes while Merrill simply looks amazed. Meeting Isabella had caught her off guard ("I didn't know you had a sister! I mean, you know, a live one…oh…Oh! By the dread wolf! I didn't mean to…I'm so, so sorry!"), and she still hasn't been able to stop staring.

The surrounding Hightown courtyard is strewn with charred and boiling remains, and Hawke instructs Merrill to dissolve them. There's no need for the Templars to get caught up in another tizzy looking for blood mages in Kirkwall, not like the last time Hawke got careless. Body disposal was one of the first things Hawke made sure to teach Merrill after that. The rest of the bodies, the ones killed more or less ordinarily, they can be left for the guard to find.

"Where is this man of yours Isabella?"

"All business you are. Maddening." But Isabella smiles anyway, "Regardless, I think I like you, blood magic and all"

Hawke quirks an eyebrow.

"That was blood magic right? I haven't seen it before, so I'm only guessing"

"…It is"

Isabella quirks her own eyebrow, and shrugs. She holds up a note she looted from one of the bodies. "Hayder's in the chantry, no doubt with more of his lackeys. Should be interesting. You think your beautiful skin will burst into flames when you step inside?"

"You think so Hawke?" asks Merrill, "That wouldn't be very good for your complexion would it? Or your health for that matter"

"It's not true Merrill," Hawke reassures her. She nods to Isabella, "Let's get this over with"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

"Isabella," Hayder drawls, "you were supposed to come alone"

"And you were supposed to be alone, but both of us knew that wasn't going to happen"

The two of them sneer in the way sketchy people do when they live up to each other's expectations. Hawke, knowing this is going to end in violence but unsure of when, taps her foot impatiently, her hood drawn up to avoid confusion.

"Where's the relic?"

"I lost it. Castillon's just going to have to do without"

"Lost it? Like you lost a ship full of valuable cargo?"

"They weren't cargo Hayder, they were people!"

Hawke listens with interest.

"Who's this then?" Hayder asks, nodding towards Hawke. "I don't know what Isabella has been telling you stranger, but she's in trouble for stealing from some powerful people. You don't want to be involved in her, trust me. She'll backstab you for your trouble"

"Don't listen to him, Hawke"

"Just leave now sweetheart, and I won't have to run my dagger down your throat"

Hayder, no surprise, is a dickbag. And when Hawke is around dickbags she gets really angry. Especially when they make vague allusions to rape. Just as Isabella flings her dagger into a lackey's chest, Hawke uses force magic to bodily shove Castillon against the shrine behind him. Letting her anger go full-froth, she makes short work of a pair of grunts, boiling the blood in their veins. Immediately she becomes the center of attention, and she has to go on the defensive, summoning a barrier and a layer of rock armor.

Isabella stabs and maneuvers her way through the mob as they concentrate their attacks on the struggling Hawke, while Merrill capitalizes on the distraction to summon lightning storms beneath the chantry ceiling.

Pressure lessened, Hawke is able to make a push against the attackers with a mind blast before summoning a nearby corpse with force magic, pulling it headfirst into her waiting hands. Between her palms, the body dissolves into a mess of blood that instantly turns into a writhing mass of tentacles that whips and dismembers any attackers foolish enough to remain close to her.

As Castillon struggles to get up, Hawke smashes his knee out from under him. He hobbles away, cursing under his breath, and Hawke hits him again, and again, and again, and again, until Isabella finally has to place a hand on her shoulder to get him to stop.

"He's dead, Hawke"

Panting, Hawke takes note. "So he is," and she leans, exhausted, against Isabella, who supports her with both arms. "Merrill, the bodies"

"Oh! Right"

As the elf goes about dissolving the bodies, collecting what blood she can in stoppered vials.

"You have a bit of an anger problem don't you?"

"Yes"

"I like it. Makes you human. More relatable." Hawke puzzles over what a curious thing to say that is. "You certainly made this easier on me Hawke. Thanks"

"Next time you can book a raiding party. Only 1000 sovereigns"

"I think I'd rather book you, beautiful"

"Ugh," Hawke pushes her away.

Merrill hops over, "Hawke, I'm done with the bodies!"

The edge of Hawke's mouth quirks upwards in a smile, satisfied with the apparent absence of mangled bodies. "Good girl," she shifts to let Merrill support her weight, "let's get out of here. I assume our business is concluded, Isabella?"

"That it is. I'll see you around Hawke. If you ever need me for anything, I have a room at the Hanged Man," and because the proposition at the tip of her tongue seems a little self-serving, Isabella just smiles and walks away.

"Who is she?" Merrill asks as they walk out into the cool of the Hightown night.

"I don't know. But I'll be keeping an eye on her"


	2. Chapter 2

Not all of Hawke's financial success stems from blood magic; she has a significant supply of business acumen, and she knows how to use it, sometimes spreading her influence to degrees that shock even her. In this case it was tapping into the oft-ignored resource that was the elves of the Kirkwall alienage. No-one was willing to hire them for anything beyond the most demeaning of tasks, and those that refused such labor often had to resort to illegal means of subsistence.

This is how Hawke met Athenril, a local thief turned-gang leader who operated under the Coterie's radar while hauling a significant take with her own illicit activities. She proved an able resource for the budding influence of Hawke's own Red Irons, and under Red Iron protection gladly allowed Hawke to whet her beak from their monthly take. By proxy, her protection extended to the Alienage itself, which to Hawke's surprise allowed for a surprisingly willing font of recruits and business contacts.

In the Alienage, Hawke was already godmother to three children; a respected member of a community she didn't even rightly belong to. And so it was that Hawke's impromptu apprentice Merrill, a Dalish elf and thus by all respects an outsider, was paid equal respect. Over time this respect, which was afforded her by proxy, became genuine as she proved herself a strong pillar of the community. For the outcast, it is almost sickeningly heart-rending how the warmth of this new family reminds her so much of her last.

For now however, she sits and she breathes.

"Relax, Merrill, focus on your breathing." Hawke's voice is a soothing melody in the din of her hut, the wood of the floorboards creaking softly as the woman slowly paces upon them.

"I am focused Hawke"

"Sssshhh…no talking, Merrill"

"Oh! Sorry"

"Merrill…"

Flustered, Merrill shuts up.

"Good girl. I want you to feel your pulse. No, not with your hand, but with your whole body. Do you feel it?"

Merill shakes her head, no.

Hawke sighs, and positions herself behind her, cupping her hands over the elf's temples. Her hands are soft, and Merrill's breath catches slightly at the proximity. She cannot help imagining those hands pressing elsewhere. "Do you feel it now?" Shepard whispers. Merrill immediately nods, hoping that Hawke cannot see the blush blazing all over her face, hoping that it doesn't show on her neck. Her pulse races in her temples, in her wrists, and strangely, in her feet as well.

"Good. Focus on your pulse, the blood pumping throughout your body. This is the melody of life, Merrill"

The praise quickens her heartbeat still further, and she feels disappointed when the hands leave her face.

"Now," Hawke says, and Merrill can feel her settling down in front of her. She takes Merrill's hands and makes them hold her own wrists, pressing the elf's thumbs to her veins. "I want you to feel my pulse." It is an intimacy Merrill is guilty of enjoying too much, spreading her awareness to the flow of lifeblood in her teacher's body. "Can you feel it Merrill"

Merrill breathes, "Yes"

"Hush, no talking. Now, focusing on both my pulse and yours, I'm going to make an incision on your thigh." Oh creators, Hawke has to be doing this intentionally. "I want you to stem the bleeding, without losing focus. This is to help you practice for the use of blood as a magical fuel, without overindulging in it. Can you do this?"

Merrill sighs, "Yes"

Hawke is silent for a while before withdrawing, "Never mind, we're done for now"

"What?" Squawks Merrill, opening her eyes.

"You aren't concentrating, Merrill"

"I…I was!"

"No, you weren't. If you can't follow a simple instruction like "don't talk" how can I expect you to stop your own bleeding?"

The only reason I couldn't concentrate is because of you! Merrill wants to shout, but can't because to do so would betray her feelings. "But you were asking me questions!"

"I was testing you"

Merrill's eyes widen and she grumbles in place.

Hawke sighs, "In any case, you were doing well up until then"

"Really?" Praise from Hawke is a balm to be savored with each grudging admittance. "Do you think so?"

"I'm surprised you figured out as much as you have on your own"

"I wasn't entirely alone, I had the spirit to help me at first"

Hawke seems to freeze for a moment, before leaving the room to fetch a glass of water. The sound of the water draining from the tank echoes from the kitchen, and Hawke brings two glasses back, handing one to Merrill. She takes a long drink of her own water. "Right, about that…spirit. I've been meaning to talk to you about him"

Merrill immediately goes on the defensive. She is tired of people lecturing her about her choices. "Why? What about?" She asks, sharply.

Hawke holds up her hands, "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but you have to be careful about the types of spirits you consort with"

"You don't have to worry about me dropping my guard"

"I know, but just to be sure, I'd like-"

"I'm not a child Hawke! I can take care of myself"

"Those are the first words from every child's lips," Hawke says softly. It sounds too much like condescension for Merrill to back down now.

Hurt and angered, Merrill turns away, "I think you should leave"

"Maybe," Hawke sounds properly remorseful, and Merrill grows angry at herself because she always forgives Hawke too easily, "maybe if I told you about my spirit first…would that be okay?"

Fascination pokes its way from behind Merrill's wall of stubbornness; this is a subject Hawke had never discussed before, something Merrill had wanted to know about ever since she first witnessed Hawke harness blood magic on Sundermount. But Merrill is too offended, and she says nothing, hating herself for every second she wastes not drawing Hawke's further attention, hating Hawke for having this effect on her.

Hawke sighs, "I apologize Merrill, I did not mean to offend you." Merrill is silent, "I will see you tomorrow." She closes the door quietly behind her.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Merrill's ire hurts more than Hawke is willing to express, but the use of blood magic has a way of unbalancing one's psyche, especially when it is granted by a demon. No-one knows this better than Hawke, with her already substantially skewed anger issues. But the talk with Merrill will have to wait for another time, she supposes.

The elves nod respectfully as Hawke walks out of the Alienage into Lowtown proper, muttering garbled Dalish phrases that roughly translate to "Godmother." It is a strange title, but it feels appropriate for her growing spheres of influence. While she's in the neighborhood she decides to take care of a few errands; meeting with some of Athenril's contacts and making sure that they are well-supplied, writing a private message for Aveline and giving it to a guard.

Running a business is busy work. Thus reminded, Hawke decides to stop at the Hanged Man to see if Varric is in. Already he has pointed her in the direction of several trade interests, not least of which is a partnership in funding an expedition into the deep roads.

Sadly, Varric is not there. Even more sadly…

"Hawke!" It's too lte to pretend that she doesn't see her.

The pirate turns heads as she passes, and one man even grins lecherously when she draws closer to Hawke, assuming that they are twins. Always with the fascination with twins. Hawke gives him a scathing look and he turns swiftly away. It doesn't hurt, having a reputation.

"Good to see you! I almost thought you wouldn't take me up on my offer"

"I'm not. I only came around to see Varric"

"Oh. Well that's disappointing. I was beginning to feel neglected"

Seeing as how her new Dwarf friend isn't around, Hawke turns around and leaves. She is annoyed, but not very surprised to find herself being followed.

"Yes?" She sighs.

"What? Can't I hang around with my new friend?"

"I'm not your friend"

"Why not? I'm already friends with your friends. Why, I'm friends with Varric, I'm friends with Merrill-"

"You're friends with Merrill?"

"Indeed I am. She's so cute, like a kitten. I think that's what I'll call her from now on, "kitten""

Hawke feels a headache coming on.

"You know I have a nickname for you too"

Against her better judgement Hawke asks what it is.

"Gorgeous!"

She cackles and Hawke pushes her lightly away, doing absolutely nothing to deter her. Even worse the woman seems to have interpreted it as grudging affection.

Isabella calms down and lets the silence extend between them. It is not uncomfortable. "You know," she says, dashing Hawke's hopes for a peaceful walk home, "you upset her pretty good earlier. Merrill, I mean"

"How do you know about that? It's only been like two hours"

"Aw, look at you being all brusque when really you want to ask me all about it. Anyway, two hours is plenty of time for a girl to get things off her chest. You should try it sometime actually; it might help remove that stick from your delicious ass." Isabella fans herself, "Whew, all this talk of chests and ass has me all flustered"

"You're going to follow me home aren't you?"

"Yes. Probably"

Hawke grumbles under her breath. Finally: "Okay fine, what did Merrill tell you?"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The Hawke household is one of the less-attractive buildings in Hightown. Not nice enough for a noble family, but certainly not crummy enough for a family of refugees one year off the boat. Really it's an oversized box, rough-hewn shale and rock, but it is a handsome box to be sure. It, like the many houses surrounding it, is intended for Dwarven habitation, and indeed Carver and Hawke have to stoop just a bit when walking through the copper-rimmed doorways.

But it is the best place for them, not least because Dwarves in Kirkwall tend to gravitate towards organized crime. Making nice with the neighbors means the Red Irons have a cordial relationship with the Carta, if not a shaky alliance.

A pair of cloaked Carta dwarves nod to Carver Hawke as he makes his way back from the market, a hefty basket clutched under his arm. One of the dwarves mockingly asks him if he needs help, and Carver responds with a racial epithet that would have most humans gutted on the spot. The dwarves just laugh and ask him if he's up for a drink later. "Sorry," he says, "just got back from an assignment and I have to report in with my boss"

"You mean your sister"

"Yes, fine, my sister"

They laugh even more, but Carver has more sense that to be resentful. One hour in front of the books and he was begging his sister to please never let him near a position of real authority again. Chief grunt suits him just fine, paperwork can stay in the bowels of hell where it belongs.

Awkwardly wedging the basket between his thigh and bicep he negotiates the key into the lock, cursing as he jostles it up, down and to the side for the ridiculous construct of the Dwarven lock. Finally t opens with a series of clicks and whirls. Carver mutters curses under his breath as he has to yank the key out of the lock.

"Mother? Isabelle? Are you home?" The lighting system is on, a series of gas-fed lamps that connect to brass spark-switches in the shape of charging brontos, which means that someone must be home. Shrugging, Carver dumps the basket on the floor; through the wicker, the contents elicit a dull thud against the stone. The week-long mission had taken a lot out of him: he would pick that shit up later. Now: sleep.

Carver shuffles his way up the stairs, kicking his toe against the top step. He cringes in pain, and walks even more determinedly towards his room. He slows his steps to soften his footfalls as he passes by the great mahogany doors to his sister's office. Voices are emanating from there which means she's n another one of her god-awful meetings. He had finally gotten her to stop roping him into those, but if she caught him all raggedy in front of a client then she and him would have words, and if anything can ruin Carver's day it is being lectured by his sister.

However, as he passes the door, he notices something strange. Rather than the monotonous droll of two people talking over contracts and plans, the only voice coming from inside the room is his sister's. She's talking to herself.

"I need your help retrieving the artifact"

"What is it?"

"It's…I'm not sure what it is"

"I know that you're lying"

"What!? Preposterous!"

"If you want my help just tell me"

Maker, she's finally gone insane hasn't she? Well, it's not like this is entirely unexpected is it? She already had those anger problems, and the blood magic probably wasn't doing her any favors, mentally. Great, now I'm in charge, thinks Carver, half joking to himself, half-serious, all nervous.

Still it wouldn't hurt to verify. He opens the doors, already asking, "Talking to yourself, sister?" in a way that is not entirely joking, though not entirely indicative of how nervous he truly is.

The sight that greets him is even more alarming, if not confusing, than he feared the situation to already be.

Seated across from his sister is…his sister.

"It is good to see you Carver, and no, as you can see I am not talking to myself"

He gapes, unable to find words.

"Who do we have here?" Comes the sultry voice of his sister from the mouth of the person who is not his sister. That his sister's voice could even be sultry makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Carver doesn't understand why his sister keeps Isabella around. He doesn't even think that SHE understands why she keeps Isabella around. But the pirate shows up more and more in his sister's party, on those assignments she trusts no-one but herself or Carver with. Today's mission has them tracking down (oh the irony!) blood mages, and for all things at the behest of a Templar named Cullen.

It's the usual spiel, with more investigatory work than he thinks is worth and his sister throwing her weight around like she owns the place. Carver should be comfortable, picking his nose at the back of the group so that no-one notices while Isabelle deals with the talking. But not today, today Isabella is here, and Carver cannot stop being distracted by her, and she knows it. It's not that he's just a little weirded out by a sexed-up version of his sister, it's that he is very much balls-to-the-wall weirded out by a sexed-up version of his sister. It does not help that she smiles at him suggestively, or hugs his arm whenever they talk, pressing her bosom against his side…

The first time she does it he actually screams as he yanks back his arm, as if it were scalded. Everyone in the market turned to look at him. Hawke is impassive, Isabella is openly laughing, and Merrill seems understanding. Carver blushes red and tromps ever onward.

Does she wear anything under that sash? Does her cleavage have to be so very much…on display? Need those thigh-high boots accentuate the fact that her thighs are very much bare? And again, is she wearing anything under there?! And the strutting! Oh Maker, the strutting! Those hips move sinuously from side to side like the shoulders of a panther, though her buttocks boldly jut with the firm roundness of a supple Coast Melon. It is a very nice buttocks, and with his mind panicking so, he notices that his sister has the exact same proportions.

So every time he sees Isabella, stares at Isabella, ogles at Isabella; invariably, he sees…his sister. He punches a hardwood door so hard that he makes a dent, splinters digging into his skin. The pain is gratifying, if only because they distract him so. Carver finds himself looking forward to his next field assignment, miserable nights in the rain be damned.

Carver seems distracted. Perhaps that excursion into the Wounded Coast was more taxing than he is letting on. Hawke resolves to keep him close for the next few days. He is a welcome help, even if his impatience can be grating in the middle of investigations. Currently she is interrogating the whore Idunna in the Blooming Rose.

The stink of blood magic is all over her, and Hawke is not surprised when Isabella suggests leaving the girl alone. The strength of her will is strong enough to sway Isabella's sense, though it is a clumsy sort of strength, and Hawke resists it easily.

"You are trying to make me stab myself," Hawke says. The girl's eyes widen. "It will not work"

The will grows stronger, larger; filling the room with its presence. But it is still clumsy, gripping at Hawke's resolve with a million fingers, each too weak to establish a grip. She closes the distance between them, feeling the girl's fear grow with each step.

"Hawke!" She hears behind her, and she turns to see Merrill actively resisting the effects of the magic, gripping her head in her hands. Carver is…punching a door? The mage must have gotten to him too.

"Stay back!" Idunna demands, "I will kill them, I-"

Hawke exerts her own will, stuffing the magic back into Idunna's body until she is bloated with tainted mana, the sudden influx manifesting as foam and spittle, eye's rolling into the back of her head. With a backhand the girl is sent hemorrhaging onto the floor. The impact of cheekbones against knuckles vaguely stings, and as she shakes her wrist in pain Hawke resolves to wear gloves in the future. Or gauntlets.

A quick interrogation reveals that Idunna has been creating abominations with the liberal application of blood magic as an STD. It's genius really, and it has Hawke musing on the unconsidered applications of the craft before stowing away the information and having Aveline send Idunna off to the circle. Patting a sheepish Isabella on the shoulder, she turns to leave. Carver looks anywhere but at her. He spares a quick glance in her direction, and Hawke raises an eyebrow. His eyes dart immediately away as if he's seen a ghost.

"Are you okay Merrill?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she says a little testily. Hawke decides not to push it.

"Carver?"

"Yes. Fine! I'm fine! I wasn't look at you!"

Sometimes the world isn't worth the trouble she goes to understand it. In any case, time for a visit to Darktown.

But Darktown is dark, and it smells awful, and Hawke hates going there. She drags her feet, trying to look as dignified as possible while doing so. Really, maybe she should just sit tight for a while. The Blooming Rose is so much nicer, even with all the whores and that smell of perfume and cum that doesn't smell awful so much as weird. And so many customers.

So…many…customers.

Inspiration strikes her like a lightning bolt.

"Viveka?"

"Yes, Serrah?"

"Can I talk to the manager?"

Viveka rolls her eyes at the formality, but ushers her nonetheless to Madam Lusine's office, a gaudy show of uncoordinated opulence that sets Hawke's teeth on edge. "What are we still doing here sister?" Carver asks, uncomfortable by the familiarity of some of some of his favorite whores. He knows his sister is probably aware of his activities here, but it is still disconcerting having her around.

"I know," Isabella says, wiggling her eyebrows.

"What?"

"Isabelle Hawke is trying to establish a foothold in the sex trade"

"Really, sister? Like buying a mine wasn't enough for you?"

"Both of you shut up," Hawke says as the office door opens.

Madam Lusine is exactly what Hawke needs her to be; a business-savvy pimp with a partner whose organization plucks too much profits from the Rose's coffers. With a few nudges of magic-induced suggestion, Lusine is airing her woes like a drunken divorcée.

"It's true. Thanks to Harlan the Coterie takes more Sovereigns from the Rose than we can actually afford"

"How terrible for you." The sympathy in Hawke's voice is a practiced honey sweet. She can feel Carver rolling his eyes by the door. Isabella just smiles.

"Yes, we can barely afford to pay the girls enough to keep them fed, and oh! The bouncers. Straight from the Coterie they are, lazy bunch of louts who think they're entitled to free samples"

"Disgusting,' says Isabella.

"But what can I do? The Coterie has a stranglehold on my business," she sighs dramatically, "they keep me open"

Hawke steeples her fingers, fixing Lusine with the most no-nonsense stare she can manage. "And if that could be changed?" Her eyes twinkle with shrewd energy.

"What are you implying, Serrah Hake?"

A heavy silence settles in the room, and Hawke puts on her most charming smile, an expression on her that she doesn't realize is more intimidating than anything else. Cue the sales pitch.

"I'm implying you could do better without the Coterie weighing you down. The Rose, I have found, is very much like a woman," Isabella snickers at the comparison, "you can't treat it too roughly or else it won't live up to its potential, and the Rose has so much more potential than what I've seen"

"What do you mean?"

Political contacts, opportunities for blackmail; Hawke doesn't say these things but that doesn't make her intentions any less impure. "I've seen wasted opportunities, untapped markets, and a chance for a higher quality product with less unnecessary expenditures . What I'm implying, Madame Lusine, is that you can make a lot more money," she lets the suggestion sink in, "IF, you sever your contract with Harlan and make me your partner"

"You are being…very direct, Serrah." Hawke suspects that Madam Lusine is more often than not charmed into doing the Coterie's bidding, when she isn't being plied veiled threats.

"I find that direct is the best way to do business"

Lusine looks overwhelmed, hopeful. Hawke can feel her heartbeat race with excitement, though it is tempered by the stale taste of hesitation. "But…how do I know you would you be better than the Coterie? How do I know if you can compete with them? If I do this and you fail to protect me from the Coterie, then…they'll kill me." Lusine narrows her eyes, "Who are you to be suggesting these things anyway?"

Hawke withholds a sigh; it looks like this sale is going to take a while. Before she can say anything though, Isabella speaks up.

"What my sister is trying to say," and Isabella winks at Hawke's glower, "is that the Coterie are a bunch of thugs who pretend to be businessmen. We, on the other hand, are businesswomen who can be thugs if we need to," she punctuates her point with a fancy twirling of her daggers. She proceeds to detail some of the plans she has for the Rose, plans that Hawke can only assume she is pulling out of her ass.

"You know what you're talking about. You run the organization jointly?" Lusine brightens at the prospect.

Isabella and Lusine stare at Hawke, who hunches her shoulders and says, "Apparently," though gritted teeth.

Lusine looks thoughtful, "I will give your proposal some thought," she says. "How can I contact you?"

Isabella claps Hawke on the shoulder.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

"What the hell was that?" Hawke demands as they make their way to Darktown.

Isabella laughs, "Seriously Hawke? She never would have handed half of her business to you"

"And she would to you?"

"Of course not. But that's why we make a perfect team! I can be the pimp and you can manage the finances. Oh, I never thought of it like that until just now. You think I should buy a new hat?"

"We're not partners Isabella"

"Fine, be a spoilsport. But you'd better pretend we are if you want to do business with Lusine"

"Argh," she has her there, "fine. You can be my partner in name, but if you mess this up for me then you're out"

"It looks like I'm going to be making you lot of money Hawke. Maybe in exchange you could help me find my relic?"

Hawke glowers at her. "What do you even know about doing business?"

"Not much," she admits, "but what do you know about wresting control from large criminal organizations? Harlan won't let go of the Rose without a fight"

"She's right sister," speaks up Carver, "Harlan is tough, and powerful. He heads all of the Coterie's prostitution operations in Kirkwall"

Hawke is irked at being given pointers on how to run her own syndicate. "I have a plan, don't worry about it"

"Care to run it by me first?" Isabella asks, "What with my being your partner and all"

"No"

"Aww, are you pouting? You are! That is too adorable! Come on, let big sister to teach you about how to assassinate people. Why I've been an expert ever since my divorce"

Hawke gives her a Look, and speeds her pace to catch up with Merrill, who takes notice but pretends like she doesn't.

"Merrill"

"Hawke"

"Are you still angry at me?"

Merrill deflates, "No. Yes"

"I am sorry if I offended you earlier," she says in a small voice.

"Are you really sorry," Merrill replies, her eyes fixed down on the dusty Lowtown tile, "or are you just apologizing so I won't be mad at you anymore?"

"Can't I do both?"

Merrill shakes her head, "You really are hopeless aren't you? Sometimes I think I'm terribly awkward when I'm talking with others, but you are like a child, even if you hide behind your…formalities"

"I do have feelings Merrill"

Merrill finally looks at her, giving her a weak smile, "I know. And I'm glad you let me see them"

Hawke doesn't know how to reply, nor does she know exactly if she's forgiven or not, but the awkwardness is preferable to Isabella's snark, so she doesn't change her pace. She decides to wait through the silence, and at the edge of her vision she notices Isabella giving her a thumbs-up. She quickly turns her head away.

"When I met you Hawke," Merrill says, "when I saw that you were a blood mage, I was scared. I thought you might be everything Marethari warned me I would become. But you weren't. You were calm and collected, and true you do get very angry sometimes and you can be very frightening, but for the most part you are a wonderful person. And it hurts when you doubt me, like Marethari did"

"I only act out of concern for you"

"I know. So did she"

"I don't…" Hawkes struggles for words, "It seems I can never say the right thing with you. You know that I'm not good at connecting with others, and I can't guarantee that I won't make you mad at me again. But even though I am your teacher. I like to think I let you get away with more than Marethari did. That doesn't mean I can't keep an eye out for you every now and then, does it?"

Before Merrill can respond, Carver announces that they have arrived at the top of the stairs leading to Darktown, and all personal matters are put to the side in favor of watching each other's backs. Still, the smile Merrill gives her is reassuring.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sorry Hawke. While managing your brothel would cater to my ego, I don't think I have it in me to be a pimp. Besides, Isabella's business plan is actually pretty sound. Have you read it? I still can't believe she wrote one up for you"

Hawke raises an eyebrow at the crude portfolio on her desk, a construction of recycled wanted posters and twine. On the cover is written "Hawke's Sex Strategy," intentionally written in loopy crayon. In the corner is a bad drawing of Hawke (or is that Isabella?) wearing a giant purple hat with a feather in it.

"I…perused it"

"What did you think?"

"It's…good," she says, tone disbelieving even in the face of indisputable evidence, "I guess you learn more about management on a pirate ship, maybe?"

Varric drinks from his flagon, "So what's the problem?"

"Honestly? I don't trust her"

He chuckles, "Probably a good policy. But she won't steer you wrong if there's nothing to gain from it. And I don't see much room for ruining your business in her grand agenda"

"You mean the relic"

"Exactly"

"Has she told you what it is?"

"No. She's been maddeningly vague on the subject"

"Hmm"

"In the end, Hawke, does it matter? She needs your help, and she's proven herself useful." He fixes her with a shrewd look, "Times are interesting in Kirkwall, and I have a feeling it's only going to get worse. Expanding your organization is admirable, but dangerous. Isabella knows what she's doing. She can make this gamble less risky, and it's not like it'll cost you much. Just a little manpower"

Hawke ponders her drink, swishing it I agitation. She looks at Varric a moment before shaking her head and taking a drink, "Dammit." Varric laughs at the grudging admittance. The mage narrows her eyes at him in exasperation, "She talked to you didn't she? To win me over"

"I admit to nothing"

She scoffs, "I can't believe you…"

"Oh come on, you know you'll need her"

Will she? Perhaps. Hawke has her reservations about seizing her share of Kirkwall's prostitution rings. She had no qualms when the idea hit her in the Blooming Rose, but Isabella's business plan slid home the reality of it: like Aveline keeps telling her time and again, maybe she is becoming a crime lord.

Is it the blood magic? The influence of the demon? Hawke prides herself on rigid self-control, to the point that pride ceases to factor into the equation, but perhaps this is a bit too much. Taking down criminal organizations is all well and good, but Hawke hadn't considered that she was perhaps taking steps to take their place.

"Fine, I'll talk to Isabella"

Varric smiles, "She's already on her way"

"Wait, what?"

Her train of thought is interrupted by her mother gliding into the office, brandishing a tray. Cookies and curious brown crisps jostle gently in their bowls. "I brought snacks!" she announces.

Hawke immediately scrambles to cover up the documents and drafts littered across her desk, each one a cog in her plan to seize the Blooming Rose. Leandra sets down the tray and picks up Isabella's portfolio, perusing it with a faint smile while Hawke sheepishly sinks back into her chair and wonders how in the hell she missed that.

"You don't have to hide these dear," she says, "I may not like what you get up to, but I trust you maintain some semblance of a moral compass." She flips a few more pages, "Though I must admit, this is a little far-fetched, even for you"

"Madame, are these crisped nug bits?" Varric asks, gingerly plucking a chip from one of the bowls on the tray.

"Indeed they are! I thought you might enjoy them. I got them at the stall down the street"

"You are an exquisite hostess madame,"he says, plopping a handful in his mouth. Hawke cringes at the poor show of etiquette in front of her mother, though the dwarf seems to handle the mouthful like a champ.

"Oh I do try, unlike my daughter here who replaces good hospitality with a wine-rack in her office." Leandra and Varric laugh good-naturedly.

"Mother…"

"No worries, Lady Leandra. I found the wine rack to be quite delightful"

"Well that's good. Isabelle needs more friends like you"

"Would you two please," Hawke pleads, "stop flirting?"

"I'm sorry dear," Leandra laughs, pinching her daughter's cheek. Holding up the portfolio, she points to the "by Isabella" scrawled on the bottom of the cover, "When do I get to meet this business partner of yours anyway? Carver complains about her constantly"

Hawke sighs, "I don't think that would be a good idea mother"

"Whyever not?"

Hawke's hands gnarl in frustration, "Just…it's not, okay? She's a shady character, that's why"

"I daresay that you're a shady character yourself nowadays." Everyone turns to regard Isabella who is leaning against the doorframe. Hawke curses that woman's damnable ability to sneak up on her. "Hello! You must be Isabelle's mother! My name is Isabella." She does a little mock curtsy.

"Oh my," says Leandra, drawing closer, leaning from side to side to scrutinize Isabella from as many angles as possible. Isabella looks amused, and steps forward to oblige her.

"Isabelle," she says excitedly, "she looks…"

"Exactly like me, yes, I know. Let's move past it"

"This is extraordinary. Wait, this isn't some magic thing is it? One of your experiments or…?"

"No, mother"

"I am 100% genuine," croons Isabella, posing. Leandra smiles in amusement. She pokes her prods her, and eventually Isabella's cavalier vanity dwindles into vague discomfort.

"Well, you certainly don't act like my daughter. But you look enough like her for me to be scandalized by your state of dress. On the other hand, Isabelle doesn't try to look feminine at all so…"

"Mother…"

"Maybe you could give her some fashion tips sometime…"

"Mother!"

Leandra smiles, "But still…your names, your appearance; it's a remarkable coincidence." She shakes her head, "Pardon me; I'm getting in the way of your meeting. Can I get you anything?" She asks Isabella with no small amount of warmth, which catches the pirate off guard.

"No, er, I'm fine. Thanks." Leandra promptly dismisses herself. "Your mother's…nice. I like her, except for the poking and prodding"

"You poke and prod me all the time," Hawke grumbles.

"Yes, but only because I'm entitled to your body love"

"Excuse me!?"

"Relax. I mean, your body isn't anything I haven't felt before. You know, on myself," she looks thoughtful, "though this does bring a line of inquiry I haven't considered before…"

"I'm not having sex with you"

Isabella smiles, "You don't know that was what I was going to say"

"Fine, what were you going to say?"

Isabella cocks her head to the side, ignoring her. "Tell me Hawke, have you ever had sex with a woman?"

Hawke says nothing, sticking Isabella with her most displeased stare.

"Have you ever had sex at all?"

More displeased stare.

"That's no fun. Now you actually are like a sister, being all prudish and annoyed." Isabella brightens; "Seeing as how we're so close now…" she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Hawke grimaces at Varric who averts his gaze, swishing the ale in his flagon as if it were a glass of wine. "Fine, yes," Hawke says, "if you help me run the Blooming Rose, I'll get started on finding your relic"

Isabella squeals and rushes to hug her lookalike, straddling her in her armchair, planting kisses on her cheeks. "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you! You won't regret this! This is such a relief"

Through the onslaught of affection Hawke struggles to reply, but ultimately gives up and settles on steadying Isabella's hips, ready to push her off should she get carried-away.

"Hawke," Varric says, "congratulations on your new partnership, but you're forgetting that none of this," he waves the portfolio, "is possible while Harlan is still in the picture"

"He's right," Isabella says, letting up and leaning back to look at her, but not getting off. "You said you had a plan"

"I do," huffs Hawke, pushing uselessly at her lookalike's shoulders. She smiles, "It involves you, incidentally"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Merrill is distracted from her studies by a knock at the door. "Coming!" She says, marking down a place in her book and hiding it under the floorboards. You can never be too sure who might walk in and freak out at seeing a tome of forbidden magic lying out in the open.

She opens the door, "Hello?

"Hello kitten," Before Merrill can react, Isabella swaggers into the house, kissing Merrill on the forehead as she slips past. Merrill closes the door on a group of curious elves and realizing that, oh goodness, she has company, she moves to make her place more presentable. It isn't until she's about to retrieve her books that she realizes that, wait a minute, this is Isabella, not Hawke.

"Goodness you're so wound up"

"Ah, sorry. I just act on instinct sometimes and that leads to some awkward situations. Hello, Isabella, good to see you. I should have said that at first but I forgot because you surprised me"

"No worries, Kitten. I am dropping by unannounced, after all"

"What can I do for you? Can I get you anything? All I have is water, but I do have some leftovers around here somewhere. That is, if you're in the mood for dried fish, which I at first thought was a strange food but living in Kirkwall I've gotten used to it. I suppose you must already be used to it, what with you being a pirate and all-"

"That's okay Merrill," Isabella laughs, "I don't require any fish"

"Oh good, because now that I think of it I already gave it to some orphan children, and it would be awkward if you wanted some and I didn't have any to give." Merrill looks thoughtful, "But then why are you here if it isn't to have some dubiously cooked fish?"

"I came to see you Merrill. Can't I visit a friend if I want to?"

"Oh, yes of course! It's just…I don't think that's ever happened to me before, someone just dropping in. I mean, I suppose Hawke has done it a few times, but she hasn't lately"

"She doesn't visit you anymore?"

"Oh no, she does. It's just lately it's always been because of lessons, or she's asking me on a mission"

"You probably see her a lot then"

"More than most I suppose, she is a very private person after all"

"I'll bet you enjoy having you to herself, as a teacher I mean"

"Oh goodness! You think so? That would be-"

"Did you know," Isabella breathes into Merrill's ear, and Merrill jumps a little bit because the pirate is right behind her and Merrill didn't hear her so much as move, "that you actually calm down when you talk about her?"

"I-is that so?"

"Oh yes," says Isabella, and Merrill feels a blush coming on because, by the creators, it's like Hawke is right there talking to her. Isabella's hand ghosts over Merrill's shoulder, "It is…adorable!" And she encircles Merrill's waist in her arms and twirls the startled mage in a circle before putting her back down again, albeit not letting go, and burying her face in her hair. Merrill almost passes out from the contact, wondering if this is what it would feel like if Hawke just noticed...

When Isabella calmed down the two of them settle down to talk, and Isabella gets it into her head that she's going to teach Merrill how to play cards, which the young mage is amused to go along with. Isabella is one of the most unique people she's met, and a wonderful person at that, with all kinds of zany experiences. In many ways she is everything that Merrill wants to be; an avid traveler, sexually adventurous, beautiful, witty. In a word, free. And Merrill doesn't know why this wonderful person seems to enjoy hanging around her, but she's happy for it.

Eventually it gets late, and Merrill hadn't even noticed, enraptured as she is by a particularly licentious tale, heavily-laden with double entendres even she finds hard to miss.

"Well," Isabella says, "I guess I'd better get going, I have an errand to run for Hawke"

"Oh? What kind of errand?"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Isabella is no stranger to assassination, after all her husband was assassinated all those years ago thanks to Zevran, and since then she has cultivated an alarmingly gung-ho and positive attitude towards the whole concept. And while she could never be as accomplished an assassin as Zevran, (Nor would she want to be. The life of a duelist and pirate is good enough for her, thanks) her rogue training affords her no small number of an assassin's talents. And an assassin's talents are useful for many different situations.

They're useful for climbing the sides of minor Hightown mansions. They're useful for picking the locks to said mansions. They're useful for sneaking past the surprisingly numerous quantity of coterie guards in the mansion. And last, and most importantly, they are useful for, well, assassination.

There he lies, Harlan, the self-professed king of Kirkwall's whore, swaddled in his king-size bed, with what is either a whore or his wife (though considering his professional life, either could be true). He is snoring contentedly, unaware of Isabella standing at the foot of his bed with a knife at the ready, unaware that the guards posted outside his room are dead, and the other guards are none the wiser.

When will people learn that more guards doesn't necessarily equate to better security?

This, Isabella realizes, is a kind of audition. Hawke's way of seeing if she can trust her not. After all, killing people for Hawke in a fight is one thing, assassinating them in their sleep for Hawke is an entirely different animal.

Isabella hesitates. Maybe this isn't the right thing to do.

Then she remembers that this man controls his people by getting them addicted to lyrium, controlling their supply so that they stumble in a drug-induced haze from jhon to jhon. Remembering this, sinking her blade into his neck doesn't seem quite so bad any more. Not great, but not bad either. So without further ado, she slides her knife along his neck. He doesn't so much as gurgle. The wife (whore?) doesn't wake, even with his blood pooling underneath her and into the sheets. Isabella looks down at them, shrugs and slips quietly out the window.

She walks into the night with the satisfaction of a job well done.

The cobblestones of Hightown make for an easy stroll. But more than most people Isabella knows that even Hightown isn't safe at night. Formidable as she is, Isabella is only one person, and she is hardly comfortable among the impassive stone houses of Hightown's finery. When she finally makes it to Lowtown she relaxes a bit. Among the dilapidated buildings and dirty shacks, Isabella is in her element, and feels confident swaggering along the alleyways to The Hanged Man.

Finally arriving at the Tavern, she grabs a man's drink right from under him, and is up the stairs to her room before he notices. She's in such a good mood that she doesn't notice the ambush of dwarves in her room, not until the club swings hits her on the head.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke wakes with a start, breath ragged. Sweat stains her pillow case, cold and wet against her hand. The cool of the breeze slipping in through her window is a welcome relief.

The images swim in her memory, vivid but nonsensical, memories and impressions of slipping into a mansion, stabbing a man, walking back to the Hanged Man. Too realistic to be a true dream. A vision from the fade? Unlikely. Hawke knows the fade and this was not it.

She has trouble putting together what she just saw with the normalcy of her room, the stillness. A pain pulses on her forehead, a soreness, fresh and raw, as if she had just been hit. Hawke grips the sheets as if to steady the room, and eventually it stops moving.

Just in time for Hawke to remember that she never leaves the window open.

She never would have avoided the club otherwise, and she throws herself to the side as it passes through the space her head was not seconds prior, smashing into the wood of her headboard. Her assailant materializes from the shadows; a dwarf in the hooded leather armor of a Carta assassin. He is surprised enough by the dodge to be momentarily stunned, time that Hawke takes advantage of to freeze him in place.

Knowing he is likely not alone, she summons her staff and smashes its end against his head. It shatters, frozen chunks of meat cascading to the carpet in a series of soft thuds. She makes a mental note to herself to removes all carpets in the house. Her mother won't like it, but they hide footfalls far too effectively.

She waits, light breathing filling the silence, ears strained for the slightest noise. For the longest time, there is nothing.

She relaxes, allowing herself full breaths. Sighing, she crosses the room to close the window. A dwarf materializes behind her, plunging a pair of knives towards Hawke's back, and at the last moment is blown against the wall with a mind blast. Before she can recover Hawke pulls and smashes her against the opposite wall, though not strongly enough to kill.

Hawke makes an incision on her thumb and extends her awareness. Finding no more signs of life in the building other than herself, Mother, Carver, and Carver's bedmate, Hawke nods in satisfaction and steps into the hallway, stalking to her brother's door and kicking it open.

"Isabelle! What are you doing!?" He shouts, covering himself up. Hawke recognizes the girl from the Blooming Rose, and politely nods at her future employee. The girl smiles and waves back.

"Drop whatever you're doing"

"Whaaat!?" He asks, conveying incredulity by raising his voice a few octaves. He struggles between indicating towards the girl and covering up, arms comically flailing to-and-fro. Finally he simply settles on yelling, "How many times have I told you to not just barge into my room!"

She gives him an "oh grow up" look. "Carta assassins were in my room"

The embarrassment drains from his face, and he rushes over, all seriousness. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I took care of them. Go fetch some of the boys, whoevers at headquarters"

"Yeah. Sure. What about you?"

"Interrogation." Hawke scrunches her nose, "Uh…maybe you should get dressed first"

Carver yelps, to his bedmate's amusement, and jumps to comply. Hawke pays the girl a final glance before winking at her before leaving the room. She can hear laughter trailing from the room.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

It was with a profound sense of exasperation that Hawke exacted from her prisoner exactly what was going on. As it turns out, her neighbors, or at least a fanatical sect of them, are a group of mountain zealots determined to harvest blood from the Hawke family and sacrifice it to their god. Naturally, this would indicate three targets: Hawke, Carver and Leandra. Unfortunately, the Carta had marked a fourth, and it was this fourth that Hawke had resigned herself to rescuing about a week ago.

Honestly, to think that even the Dwarves thought Isabella was her.

"Do you think Mother will be alright?"

Hawke turns to her brother, her silly wide-brimmed hat bobbing with the movement. Carver is wearing one too, as is Varric and the company of Red Irons with them. Just one more thing to keep them shielded from the sunlight. "We left her with Aveline, Carver. I'm pretty sure she'll be fine." He still looks worried. She grips his shoulder in reassurance. "Right now, we have to focus on rescuing Isabella"

He nods. He may not be overly-fond of Isabella, but saving her from a fate he might have shared is a strong motivator.

"Boss," shouts one of the Irons, "We have movement"

"What in the maker-" Hawke squints her eyes towards the distance. "Oh dear. Everybody prepare for an attack." Right on cue, an arrow thuds into the ground right next to her.

The company scatters to take shelter in the ruins. "Boss, get down!"

Hawke is about to comply when a sudden gust knocks her hat off of her head. This would be no big deal, but the chin strap catches on her neck, and the wind is strong enough to pull her to the side as she struggles to reach cover. Eventually she trips and feels sand crunching into in her mouth, dull and acrid.

She sees red.

"Boss! The arrows! Get down!"

Hawke climbs to her feet, ripping away the hat and spitting out sand. An arrow whizzes by her head, and this, she thinks, this is the last fucking straw. "No! I won't get down!" Arrows start peppering the group from above, and by either luck or some miracle they all seem to be missing Hawke. Her men watch terrified as she defiantly stares into the sunset, into the incoming barrage that dots the horizon, getting ever-closer. "We have been walking for days! In the blazing heat! I smell terrible and my hair has dandruff in it! I will not be killed by a bunch of religious fanatics after having come all this way!" And without any further ado she cuts her wrist and allows the power to course through her, rampantly fueling her magic, creating a gravity-well in between her and the dwarves. Sand rushes into the epicenter, a great particulate mass that disorients everyone, save Hawke whse feet are rooted to the spot. All arrows stop in mid-flight and are swept up in the pull, and with them many startled dwarves.

"We are the Red Irons!" Hawke shouts, "And we will not stand any more indignities!" In the distance a cloud of fire materializes above their enemies and fire reins down upon them.

For the first time in their lives the mercenaries feel like more than a ragtag group of thugs, more than a part of a burgeoning circuit of organized crime. Put simply, they feel better about themselves. Yeah! They think, their leader's pompous indignation becoming infectious, These indignities will not stand!

"Charge men!"

They oblige her, eager to hold onto that feeling of being part of something greater than themselves, to which Isabella Hawke is the gatekeeper. They take off in a run, and admittedly it is a longer run than they thought it would be, but though they are exhausted, their enemies are battered and scorched. The Irons sweep the disoriented dwarves into a bloody swathe of muscle and steel. Even the Irons archers get caught up, and in mid-chrage realize what they are doing wrong and hang back to notch their arrows, by which point the dwarves are already dead.

"Come on men!" Yells Carver, "We have a pirate to rescue!"

And so they press on, fueled by bloodlust and enthusiasm. Hawke marches grimly in their midst while Varric contentedly takes notes.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The Red Irons fought admirably; with more fervor than men of their standing could ever be expected to. Considering they had fought and killed a veritable god, Hawke figures they died good deaths. About four of her men are left, and among these four only two still have of their limbs. But they were alive dammit! And they could forever tell their grandchildren about how they followed Isabelle Hawke into battle and vanquished one of the dark mages of the Imperium. Needless to say, all four of them have had religious awakenings.

Hawke is genuinely surprised that, considering the utter disaster that was waiting for them, none of her men even considered turning back. In fact many of them insisted on joining her even after they had gotten back Isabella, who was no worse for wear, but severely annoyed. But most of all, and this Hawke would never admit, she was surprised that so many of her men had lasted as long as they did (even if most of them died in the end).

"You had better help me find ten relics," Isabella had screamed as Hawke untied her on the sacrificial alter, "for this shit you got me involved in!" Seeing Isabella so rattled was funny enough that Hawke didn't even bother to say that it wasn't technically her fault.

Isabella, like the few remaining Irons, is in a curiously good mood. "Doesn't anybody realize that we all almost died," Hawke tells her, peering sidelong at her brother leading the Irons in a song as the lot of them make their way back to Kirkwall, "we lost a lot of good men. Why are they so happy?"

"Dear Maker Hawke, they're happy because they lived. Aren't you, I don't know, giddy? Thankful?"

"I know I'm thankful," says Varric, scribbling in his notebook, "got a lot of material back there. I'm going to turn this into a bestseller"

They both ignore him. "Yes, it's too bad about your men, but you still have those guys right?" she points at the singing group.

"Hmm"

"Oh big surprise, you're being a sourpuss. If you aren't happy to be alive, then at least you learned a lot about your father, and well, some admittedly dark historical secrets"

"Hmm"

"I swear Hawke, as soon as we get back to Kirkwall, I am buying you a drink! No, ten drinks! In fact," she raises her voice, "I'm buying everyone drinks at the Hanged Man when we return!"

The men cheer, and even Hawke can't resist a smile, snapping out of her introspective reverie. For now, she supposes, she can put her thoughts aside and enjoy the fact that, holy fucking shit, she is alive. She can put aside the fact that she dreams what Isabella sees, that she has recently killed a god, that she and Carver have found out the grisly truth about her father, that her men are now dead in a forgotten thaig; casualties of a fight with a swarm of darkspawn, and a mad ancient.

She can forget all this, because she is alive, and Hawke allows herself the amazement that comes with it.

"Very well, Isabella, I'll celebrate with you"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke wakes up with a pounding headache, and immediately realizes she is not in her own bed. By the maker, she thinks, if those dwarves tried anything again…She lets the thought trail off, her own resentment dwindling with the pulsing in her cranium. No, if the dwarves got to her then she would probably be dead, not hung-over in the Hanged Man-

Oh…hahaha. She hadn't gotten it before. That's funny. She is in the Hanged Man. She remembers now.

"You know," says a voice right next to her, and Hawke's eyes go wide, "from the moment I laid eyes on you," Hawke turns her head slowly, deathly afraid of what she'll find, though already starkly aware of the truth, palpable as the warmth by her side, "I just knew this was going to happen"

Isabella looks down at her, propping herself up on an elbow, and as Hawke notices the pirate's nakedness she realizes that she too is naked. Isabella is grinning.

"You really had me going Hawke. There's no way you haven't slept with a woman before"

Hawke does not scream, she does not panic, she does not react with involuntary violence. She does not fumble out of the bed in a panic, hurriedly yanking on her clothes so she can get out of there as soon as possible to suffer the long walk of shame home. Perhaps it is because of the unusual effect Isabella has on her (and she on Isabella, for why else would the pirate be watching her as she slept without panicking herself?). Either way, all she can think to do is to calmly, and quietly, close her eyes.

"Balls"


	4. Chapter 4

"If I keep my eyes closed for long enough, I'll wake up and this will never have happened"

"I don't think that's how it works Hawke"

"That is so how it works. This is your cue to sneak out of the room because of your crippling commitment issues"

Isabella laughs, "Look if it makes you feel better, you came onto me"

"How could that possibly make me feel better? What you just said is the exact opposite of making me feel better"

Isabella caresses Hawke's cheek, coaxing her eyes open. "Hey there." She smiles at Hawke's dubious expression, "Relax. This was fun, it doesn't have to be anything more. And come on. It's not like you really boned your sister, if anything this was like boning yourse-mph!" Hawke's hand whips over Isabella's mouth.

"No. Stop talking. Stop talking while the images in my head are still fuzzy"

Isabella pouts into her hand, and then smirks, making Hawke think that she's about to lick it, because really, that is the immature kind of thing Isabella would do. Hawke yelps as Isabella instead slips her hands under the covers and traces her fingers around the contours of Hawke's breasts. She capitalizes on the mage's surprise and slowly presses flush against her, kissing and biting the spot where Hawke's shoulder meets her neck, a spot which Isabella remembers drives her crazy.

"What are you doing?" Hawke asks, eyes lidded, half-heartedly trying to push her doppelganger away.

"Mixing business with pleasure?" Isabella grins at Hawke's pointed lack of amusement.

Without further preamble she slowly, sensuously, attacks Hawke's lips, smirking as Hawke makes a pleasured "mmmm" in response. Hawke's eyes are closed, but as she opens them she can see Isabella looking right at her, making sure that Hawke knows what's happening, what Hawke is allowing to happen, and what Isabella is about to do.

They both pause, and Hawke has time to considers putting a stop to this. In a sudden lapse of willpower, she decides not to. Isabella's hand under the covers has something to do with the decision. Her breath hitches as Isabella's fingers curl deliciously to the side.

Having sex with Isabella was weird. Good, spectacular even, but weird, like some seriously intense bout of fantasy masturbation. The implications of the act are so convoluted that when they've finished, naked and panting on Isabella's bed, Hawke doesn't hesitate to get up and get dressed. Finally, with a nod, a raised eyebrow, and an awkward little wave, she leaves Isabella on what she hopes are amicable, but dismissive terms. Her stride out of Isabella's room isn't exactly a walk of shame, but it comes close.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The way to Hightown is relatively quiet, and the silence affords Hawke the opportunity to slowly panic about what has just happened, and hope that nobody finds out, especially her mother. That would be bad, though Hawke isn't sure if it would be bad because of the teasing, or the implication of self-infatuation. Her ego isn't that big is it?

As she draws closer to her residence in Hightown, Hawke is mildly perturbed to run into a group of dwarves loitering in front of her house. Both Hawke and the dwarves stiffen as they see each other. Hawke unslings her staff, digging a nail-mounted tack into her thumb. The small flow of blood quickens her blood magic, and in the midst of the euphoria she dazedly wonders if she's becoming addicted.

Before she can boil the lot of them from the inside out, one of the dwarves yells, 'Wait!"

He steps forward, clearly the leader, his lack of weapons and the extravagant cut of his clothes marks him as much.

"Wait! Still your weapon, serrah Hawke. We come in peace!" He walks closer, extending his hand. "My name is Dholan Rocksheer, I act as an advocate and representative of-"

"The carta, yes, I know. I've heard of you before," Hawke interrupts, ignoring his outstretched hand, "Your people came after me, Why shouldn't I kill you where you stand?"

Dholan awkwardly withdraws his attempt at a handshake. "I know, and I'm sorry about what you had to go through. It is a testament to your courage and strength that you were able to survive the ordeal"

Hawke sneers at the flattery,"Many of my men died"

"And I apologize for that too. Profusely. Please, before you judge us further, may we talk?"

Hawke narrows her eyes at him. "Talk"

When Hawke doesn't move, much less usher him to someplace private, Dholan hesitantly begins. "The group that attacked you…they weren't a part of the carta proper"

"What do you mean?"

"You must have noticed their…fanaticism. They used to be a part of the carta, yes, but when they began showing signs of madness, they were swiftly cut off. They split off into their own splinter group months ago"

"You're saying you had nothing to do with my friend's kidnapping"

"Of course not. The carta has nothing but the utmost respect for the Red Irons. It is our hope to make reparations, and continue our previous relationship in the spirit of good business"

Hawke's eyebrow twitches, "Why? Because you hope to apologize for your countrymen? Or because you heard of what I did to Corypheus?"

If he recognized the name he showed to indication. He ignores her questions, and instead beckons to one of his men. The man brings forth a heavy-looking wooden box. "For you Serrah Hawke, with respects from the Carta"

She kicks open the box with her foot. It is filled to the brim with golden sovereigns. She kneels down, tkaing a handful and letting the coins slip between her fingers and back into the pile. The clinking they make as they fall is a gratifying sound. She closes the box. "This is acceptable. Thank you for the gesture, Dholan"

"Not at all, Serrah. Know that from here on the Carta will extend to your house the same security measures afforded the other dwarves of the Iron quarter"

He motions to his men, and they all turn to leave, save for two who pick up the box and take it into her house.

"Dholan!" She calls.

He pauses. "Yes?"

"I overheard something when I was in the mountains"

"Oh?" He stops, turns, his men following suit.

"They said, and I only repeat what I've heard, they said that the Coterie has a stranglehold on the Lyrium comign into Kirkwall. Something about a economic blockade. They said the Carta would soon fall if nothing was done. Is this why you are trying so hard to foster friendships, I wonder?"

Dholan's veneer of politeness drops, and Hawke sees that he is making a visible effort to stifle a biting response. He turns and continues walking.

"Let me know if you need help with that!" She calls after him, smiling as plans unfold at the previously unforeseen possibilities. "I'm always looking for ways to diversify my interests"

So giddy is she by the sudden idea that she nearly forgets that she slept with Isabella. Nearly.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Predictably, the first thing Leandra does when she gets in is hug her, while at the same time berating her for taking unnecessary risks. That, and a great deal of fussing ("Your clothes are ruined! Why didn't you come into the house last night, even Carver came and he was drunk! Were you drunk? Were you with someone? Honestly!"). Hawke weathers it in the name of love.

Subsequently, she takes a long steaming bath, making sure to get herself as clean as possible. After a week spent fighting scores of dwarves, darkspawn, and the odd spider, a hot bath is pure bliss. It isn't until she's been lounging for a good hour, her skin assuming the texture of a prune, that she actually gets on with the washing part. She frowns as she notices the scratch marks along her thighs and back, and the hickeys left in more places than she cares to mention. She mutters Isabella's name under her breath, like a curse.

She soon puts it out of her mind, dressing and descending the stairs to find that her mother is singing in the kitchen, cooking lunch. She sits at the dining table, surprised to find that Carver is hunched over in his seat, head clutched in his face in hungover agony. He shields his eyes with resolutely-pressed index fingers. Hawke pats him on the shoulder and he flinches, but immediately calms down at the sound of her voice.

"What have we got today?" He croaks.

"You can relax Carver, we only just got back"

"Will you be relaxing?"

"In my own way, yes"

He is silent for a while, "In that case, after this I'm going back to my room." He peaks his eyes out from behind his fingers, "What did you get up to last night anyway?"

Hawke stiffens, "Er…not much. Just, y'know, this and that"

He is silent for a long while, inquisitive, even though it looks like he has trouble so much as thinking. "D'you fuck someone?"

"Carver!" She sputters.

He cringes at the volume, "Not so loud! Ugh. Look, it's not like it's a big deal. You're my big sister for maker's sake; I'd have to be pretty repressed to believe that you don't have sex." Hawke struggles to come up with a response, but ultimately is silent for too long, "Andraste's tits!" He lowers his voice, "You did, didn't you? Who was it? Not one of the boys?"

"Of course not! Shut up you ass," she hisses.

"Come on, you can't expect me not to be curious. You're like, the biggest prude I know"

"Good, go on believing that." She punches his arm.

He scoffs and punches back. It's such a silly thing for them to be doing they both break out in smiles and exchange mock blows on the shoulder, the slapstick compounding the good mood of the previous night. He might be hungover and she might have woken up next to Isabella, but dammit they're alive. They laugh.

"All right, children," announces Leandra, raising her voice as she walks into the room, carrying a pot of beef stew in her hands, "that's enough of that"

Hawke punches her little brother's arm one more time as he gets up to set the table. Considering Carvers superior strength, she figures this is not unfair of her; her shoulder hurts like a rage demon has been chewing on it.

Despite her now sore shoulder, the three of them have a cozy family lunch, and Hawke reflects on how moments like this make everything she does worth it. Every dirty, underhanded, little thing.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

After a satisfying meal, Hawke makes her way to the Alienage. Upon reaching Merrill's shack she is informed that the mage is out, and she decides to wait under the canopy of the vhenadahl, in no hurry to get any business done today. Folding her robes underneath her, Hawke takes a seat on one of the benches with a relaxed sigh, smiling as young elf children play without caring about her presence. Only a few months ago those same children would have regarded her with fear, by virtue of her humanity. They are still afraid of humans, but Hawke has been singled out as an exception, as well as anyone in a Red Irons uniform.

The sunlight is relaxing, warm and pleasant against sore muscles. Passing elves stop to pay their respects. Some of them even nervously ask her for favors, struggling to get the words out amid stutters. Hawke denies a few, but there are some she has no qualms about granting; a loan to start up a business, helping young workers send money back to their families, a request to have Aveline look into a murder. Thankfully, none of them trouble her for long.

"Hawke"

Hakwe smiles at the familiar voice, "Hello Athenril"

"So good to see the patron saint of the alienage actually in the alienage"

"And you are a welcome sight yourself. Or you would be if I could actually see you"

Athenril materializes right next. "What brings you by? Surely not to grant us all of our sad little pipe dreams"

Hawke chuckles, "One of these days I'm going to find out how rogues do that"

She grins, "Good luck. It's a trade secret. You'll never find out"

Hawke shakes her head in amusement, "I'm here to see Merrill"

"Ah, the cute apprentice with the interesting artifact collection"

"Athenril…"

"Relax, I haven't been in there since you warned me off"

She doesn't say anything more, but doesn't leave either, prompting Hawke to fix her with an inquisitive raising of the eyebrow. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Athenril?"

"No, no. You've helped enough. Oh, that reminds me," Athenril pulls a jangling pouch off of her belt, "your cut"

"Thanks," Hawke says, pocketing the bag in a fold of her multi-layered robes.

"I'm actually here on the behalf of that woman over there. The one who's been wringing her hands for the last half-hour"

"I was wondering. She's Dalish isn't she?"

"Recognize the tattoos did you? Yeah she's Dalish. One of my lieutenants is sweet on her, wants to help her out with a problem she has, so he brought her to me"

"Why do I get the feeling that this problem is about to become my business?"

"Because," Athenril laughs, beckoning the woman over. Arriani jumps and sheepishly begins walking towards them, "This is a problem that appeals to a specific associate of yours"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

After the talk with Arriani regarding her son Feynriel, Merrill finally arrives. To Hawke's surprise, she is accompanied by Aveline.

"Will you help her?" Merrill asks Hawke as she fiddles with her keys. "She seemed so sad"

"I think I will. Athenril was right, it is a unique problem"

"I won't be able to help you with this one Hawke, I'll be busy for the next week"

"That's fine Aveline," Hawke says, stepping into the house as Merrill opens the door.

Merrill busies herself by putting away her shopping, slipping vegetables and bread into nooks and crannies where one would not expect to find foodstuffs. To her surprise, Hawke helps her, long accustomed to the odd ways Merrill uses her space (Aveline simply takes a seat, not wanting to get in the way). It is such an easy familiarity that Merrill cannot help sending Hawke a warm smile.

"What?" Hawke asks, curious at Merrill's amusement. She smiles herself.

"Nothing. I'm just so glad that you got back safety," Merrill's eyes widen at her own statement, "and that you rescued Isabella. I'm glad that Isabella is safe too. But also you. I'm, uh, glad to see you too. In one piece. Safe. Not that you need saving! Because you're so strong. Oh dear, I'm rambling"

Hawke's smile brightens and she tousles Merrill's hair (much to the young mage's mixed feelings of pleasure and annoyance). "Thank you Merrill. I'm glad to see you too"

Merrill flushes red and hurriedly turns away, "Well? Shall we be going? I'm sure that the Feynriel boy isn't going to find himself"

"What's the rush Merrill? You only just got here. We can begin the investigation tomorrow"

"O-oh. I suppose you're right. How silly of me"

Aveline rolls her eyes, unable to believe Hawke's obliviousness. She gets up and busies herself with making tea, looking silly holding the small teapot in her daunting guard captain armor. "How are you doing Hawke?"

"Much better after getting back. Thank you for looking after my mother"

"It was no problem. You know that Hawke. She was a delight, though she had some words to say about my living habits," Aveline smiles ruefully, "It was just like when my own mother was still alive"

"She's my mother Aveline," Hawke says, mockingly childish, "you can't have her"

Aveline scowls and swats Hawke's shoulder (unfortunately the same shoulder that Carver had been hitting earlier, intensifying the pain). "I understand the journey was quite grueling," Aveline continues, treading carefully, "I heard you lost some men"

Hawke's smile falters, the mood of the room darkening with the change of subject. "Yes…I…I did. I didn't really know any of them that well but…still"

Aveline nods somberly, handing Hawke a teacup. "It's a feeling you never really get used to. Did they have families?"

"No, Willem tells me they didn't, not that he knows anyway"

"Small reassurance that. Every time one of my guardsmen dies I have to write a letter to their families," Aveline peers into her teacup, expression fixed in grim contemplation, "that's the hardest part, really." She snorts in self-derisive amusement. "I'm sorry. I just ruined the mood didn't I?"

"Let's talk about something else," Hawke announces, trying to sound cheerful, "like what you two were doing before you got here? To my knowledge, you never hang out"

"Oh," Merrill brightens with the change of subject, "I was actually giving Aveline advice on how to handle her cru-"

"Shush!" Aveline sputters, "Merrill!"

"What?" Hawke asks, a smile growing on her face. "Is this something you can't tell me Aveline? I thought we were friends!"

Hawke makes herself comfortable, savoring the mundane sort of reverie that comes with idle gossip. It will not be long, after all, before she is flung bodily back into the turbulent comings and goings of Kirkwall's underground.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Two weeks pass, and Hawke wastes no time plunging herself back into her work. For the most part, this consists of running her organization from behind a desk, securing contracts and sending her lieutenants on routine assignments. To combat office rage she takes the occasional day trip into the city and surrounding countryside, fulfilling contracts personally.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The First Day

The first personal contract isn't really a contract, but that personal favor to Athenril; the search for Arriani's son, Feynriel. The investigation isn't particularly easy-going, mostly because she employs the services of a man who hates her. Still, Fenris specializes in tracking and killing slavers, and Hawke has to admit to a feeling a measure of satisfaction as she unleashes his frothing anger on scores of imperium slavers. He is beautiful in his brutality, and seeing someone struggle with their rage makes her feel better about her own issues.

As usual she parts with him on shaky terms, and he fixes her with a burning glare before stomping out of the cave where they found Feynriel. This means she should probably wait a few days before contacting him again. Whatever. As long as she's willing to help him find one blood mage, he can bloody well tolerate working with one.

"What happens to me now?" Feynriel asks, "Will you take me back to the circle? Or let me run to the Imperium?"

"You won't have to do either, if you come work for me"

And so it is that Hawke gains another apprentice, much to Merrill's annoyance. Teaching him how to control his powers takes up a lot of her time, but he is talented, and he soon finds an easy place in her organization as a healer, more than content to stay away from the fighting. He is unnerved by Merrill's hostility towards him, assuming that it is because he is a half-breed. But Merrill's crush is obvious, and he decides not to hold it against her.

The Fifth Day

The other missions are more straightforward.

"You killed them and tortured them because they were too beautiful?" Merrill asks, disgusted.

"It wasn't me. It was the demon. I came here because I needed to die, so that I would stop hurting people"

"And you brought the girl with you why? Because you needed company?" Fenris sneers, "Kill him and let's be done with it"

"Please, just leave me. I-" He's interrupted by Hawke's staff smashing into his jaw, knocking him to the floor.

"SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUT UP! SHUT! UP!" She stabs the end of her staff onto his nose, again and again and again; the blunt tip breaking it, flattening it, caving it in, and ultimately leaving his face a pulpy mass of blood and bone, sticky upon the floor of the crypt. She doesn't even stop to catch her breath, turning away and walking to the exit. "We're done here"

The Ninth Day

"You're a mage, like me! You can't hide it!"

"I'm not trying to Decimus, but you're the one who attacked us"

"You can't kill me! I'm strong now! Gracie, they have to die!"

"Decimus, no!"

Decimus stabs his palm, blood exploding grotesquely outward in the transmutation from blood to magic. The ground crumbles, scores of undead digging through the floor of the cave. They unearth themselves in a rebirth of rotted flesh and tainted magic, their faces stuck in permanent scowls, rictuses of unceasing pain. With a wave from Decimus, they shamble to the fore, charging at Hawke's group, rusty blades drawn. When they reach striking distance they stop in their tracks.

"You're new to blood magic, aren't you boy?" Hawke holds up a hand, her own blood draining freely from the palm. Slowly, with shuddering limbs that crackle and pop, the undead turn on the startled young mage that summoned them. "A little self-control might have done you some good"

After leaving the runaway mages in the cave, wills broken by Decimus's slow mutilation, Hawke and her party step into the windy sunlight of the Wounded Coast, only to be confronted by a contingent of Templars.

"I am Ser Karras. I am here searching for-"

Hawke fixes him with a glare, her face still smeared with the blood of the recently-killed. "They're dead," she says simply, staring into his eyes for a few seconds longer before stalking past him, jostling him with her shoulder. Karras looks to Thrask, who shrugs, and after watching Hawke and her party depart, motions for his troops to depart as well.

It is just as well, the smell of blood magic emanates from the cave, nauseating in its thickness. He has no desire to sully himself with the stench.

The Twelfth Day

"You are Hawke?" The Arishok asks, an incredulity in his voice that Hawke cannot even begin to guess the meaning of. As soon as she showed up at the compound she was treated with nothing but rough hostility, behavior she did not typically associate with the Qunari. Isabella was right to warn her off of the compound. Still, Hawke thinks, no point crying over spilled milk.

"Yes. I am Hawke," says Hawke jarring her arm away from the hold of an Ashaad, "I'm here with the dwarf. He tells me you might be interested in selling explosive powder"

The Arishok ignores her, drawing up and lowering himself so that they are face-to-face, noses almost touching. His breath is disturbingly scentless. "Do you think me foolish, pirate?"

"What?"

Spears converge on her neck and the necks of Javaris Tintop and the two Red Irons in her contingent, tips barely inches from the flesh. "Where is the Tome of Koslun?" He demands, severity dripping from his words like acid.

"I'm not with her!" Yells Javaris, "I only met her today!" He is silenced by the butt of a spear.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hawke hisses, flinching as a spear-tip strays too close, pricking her neck and eliciting a slow trickle of blood.

"You stole the Tome of Koslun. I cannot even fathom the depth of your selfishness." he takes her neck in his massive hand and slowly lifts her into the air, not so much as twitching in exertion. Hawke's feet unconsciously kick out as her esophagus is squeezed almost to a close. She gasps for oxygen, gripping uselessly at the Arishok's meaty fingers. This is not how she saw her day going. Not at all. "Tell me. Where. It. Is"

"I…don't…know," she chokes out, "I don't know….what you're…talking about"

He stares into her eyes, his gaze an unflinching yellow intensity. Hawke feels her consciousness slipping, a sliver of indignation stirring in her chest as neon lights swarm her vision. The blood trickling down her neck boils, and in no time at all it fizzles into nothing. The Arishok's eyebrow raises at the curious burn in between his fingers, and abruptly, against his will, his fingers shakily unfold, dropping Hawke to the floor. She lands in a boneless heap, struggling to push herself to her hands and knees. She vomits on the floor.

The Arishok's hand does not move, and the fingers begin to bend against the joints. Grimacing, he brings his hand into a tight fist, expelling the strange power that was controlling it. "You are serabaas"

Hawke says nothing, struggling to breathe.

"I was mistaken. Show her the way out," dismisses the Arishok, turning away. He settles on his throne. "She is not the one we are looking for." Hawke almost can't hear the frustration in his voice, but it's there. She can see it in his posture, fathomless, leaving him quivering ever so slightly in stifled, impotent rage.

"So," her voice is scratchy, broken, "that's a "no" on the explosives then"

The Arishok glares at her. She glares right back.

The Arishok doesn't know it, but their business is far from concluded.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The Thirteenth Day

"Maker! What happened to your neck?!" Exclaims Isabella. She had spotted the bruise sticking out from Hawke'e bandages , and before Hawke could stop her had moved to undo them. The two of them are sitting in her plush accommodations at the Blooming Rose. Isabella prefers to sleep in Lowtown, and still spends the majority of her time there, but having a private apartment in a high-class brothel is hardly a bad thing.

"Ambush," Hawke rasps, lying through her teeth, "almost got me"

"Maker," Isabella places a tender finger on Hawke's neck, "he had big fingers didn't he?"

Hawke smiles. Best to let Isabella think she's still ignorant for now. "He did. I got him though, in the end." She looks around at the opulence of the room, "I see you've made some improvements to the place"

"Oh yes. We're making more money than ever. Lusine is over the moon." Isabella's eyes trail back to Hawke's neck, "That looks nasty," she says.

"Eh, it's not so bad"

Isabella leans forward and places a gentle kiss on the sore skin. "Does it feel better now?" She asks, glancing up.

Against her better judgment, Hawke cranes her neck back. A little release wouldn't hurt after the crappy couple day she has had. "A little. You missed a spot"

Isabella smiles at the uncharacteristic boldness, and leans in for another kiss,on the lips this time.

When they're finished, clothes sprawled all over the room, they are both left, panting, satisfied and extremely unsettled; Hawke, because she had bedded Isabella again (even though she swore she wouldn't) and Isabella, because the whole thing had been unusually gentle. Sure, they had to be gentle because of Hawke's injury, but still.

"You mean apart from the obvious?" Hawke turns, burying her face in Isabella's breasts and wrapping her arms around the pirate's waist. The action could be interpreted as affection, but for her own sake Isabella decides to believe that it is only Hawke's way, and does nothing to dislodge her sleepy doppelganger.

"Yes, apart from the obvious"

"I don't know Isabella," Hawke yawns. "Now be quiet so I can sleep and dream that this never happened." Her voice is ticklish against Isabella's skin.

"Come on," Isabella laughs, "be serious"

But Hawke is already asleep, exhausted. Isabella sighs, and tries not to think about how at ease she feels at that moment, in Hawke's arms. It has nothing to do with feelings, she knows, because Hawke has about as many emotions in her as a soggy rag. At least where Isabella is concerned. It might have nothing to do with feelings, sure, but whatever it is they have, it comes dangerously close.

"Balls"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

After The Two Weeks

Hawke and Varric make their way to the Hanged Man, easily conversing in the relative emptiness of the Lowtown byways. They are in no hurry to reach their destination.

"You should have heard them at the Merchant's meeting, Hawke. They were in an uproar!"

"A good uproar or a bad uproar?"

"A little of both"

"What did they say about me?"

"Oh the older dwarves talked about your audacity, and the younger one's practically praised you as the herald of progress for us surfacers"

"They've been listening to too many of your stories"

"You did kill a god Hawke, I was there"

Hawke fiddles with the belts of her robe, fastening the vest a little tighter in the cold of Kirkwall's windy coastline winter. "I get the feeling that it will be even harder to break the Coterie's block on the Lyrium smuggling"

"Not so difficult, really. All you need is manpower and money"

"I have both"

"Let me rephrase that: you need manpower, and a LOT of money"

"How much, do you think?"

"Nothing you'll be able to make for another three years, at least not while most of your assets are tied up in investments"

"Fucking investments"

"Whoa, there. Don't get angry on me now." Hawke glowers at him. "Hey it was your idea to take over the Rose, not to mention all that real estate in Lowtown. If you just raised the rent…"

"Out of the question. That's Fereldan housing, Mother would kill me"

"Admirable. But you won't have enough money to corner the lyrium trade by being fair"

Hawke shoots him a sardonic grin, "But I could if I went on a hypothetical expedition into the deep roads?"

Varric grins in reply, "I didn't say that"

"You didn't need to, you silly man. I can read you like a book written in blocky crayon"

He chuckles, "You wound me, madam. But, you know, just in case, you should consider such hypothetical opportunities, at least if you're determined to cut out the Coterie. They've been cautious since your last stunt with Harlan"

Finally they arrive, settling down for a drink in a quiet corner of the Hanged Man.

"Tell me Hawke, you're already rich. Why pursue this?"

"The Lyrium trade?" She leans back, peering ponderously at the ceiling. "I'm not sure actually. People seek all kinds of power. Methods of control, be it over themselves or others. I guess I'm no exception"

"Are you saying you're after control?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet Varric?" Hawke extends a hand into the air, fingers poised and outstretched, as if there is something just out of her reach. "Kirkwall is a Templar city, and lyrium is its lifeblood." She clutches at nothing, fixing him with a vacant stare, and a smile that looks more dazed than amused.

"I guess we're going to the deep roads"


	5. Chapter 5

The insomnia happened infrequently, but it still happened.

In the weeks leading up to the big Deep Roads Expedition, Hawke spent a lot of restless nights avoiding sleep, getting things ready for the trip; buying supplies, making sure her business was safe while she was gone. About the only problem she didn't have was funds. Hawke actually laughed in Dougal's face when he offered her a loan, and Varric had the privilege of being there as his rival slinked sulkily into the night.

"You do realize this makes us friends forever don't you?" He had told her. It had made her day.

The only serious snag in the plan was the matter of finding an actual entrance into the roads.

When she found out that Bartrand couldn't even supply that, she got angry and spent the afternoon in a shouting match with him, causing quite a disturbance in the Hightown square, Anxious guradsmen had to politely ask them to leave, though much to their chagrin they were then confronted by Hawke and Bartrand's combined ire, reducing one rookie to tears. Aveline had a word with her after that.

Avoiding the whole fiasco, Carver, for once the mature sibling, enlisted Fenris and a handful of Irons and began to go about sniffing leads. It was sweet of him really. Though how much of it was due to consideration, and how much it was to avoid a sleepless Hawke was questionable. Carver wasn't sure why she couldn't sleep, but had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with Isabella.

He was right.

Isabella had a great many nightly activities, mostly involving sex and fighting. Her nights those days tended to lean towards sex, and a lot of it (due to a significant discount afforded her as co-proprietress of the Blooming Rose.)

It didn't happen often, but sometimes Hawke dreamed what Isabella was doing. And when she dreamed, she woke up not long after, angry and sexually frustrated. It was very aggravating, but she didn't dare let on the reason for her insomnia, opting to keep Isabella as much out of the loop as possible. That included their bond; if Isabella knew that Hawke was privy to her secrets, there was no telling how she would react. So Hawke kept her mouth shut.

This was especially poignant as she had no intention of giving the Tome to Isabella once it was found. She wasn't sure exactly what she would do with it, but it would not go to Isabella.

"You report to me," she explained to the latest informant, a slippery little fellow named Wall-Eyed Sam, "as soon as you get even hint of the relic's whereabouts, you tell me and no-one else. Got it?"

He got it.

While Carver searched, Hawke went about her usual business, albeit in an explosively agitated manner. Feynriel and Merrill were particularly wary of her, walking on eggshells during their lessons (which, despite how busy Hawke got, she did not cancel). During these sessions Feynriel was always excused early, as Hawke would not dare teach him blood magic. This inadvertently secured about an hour each day just for her and Merrill, and it was during these extra-curricular sessions that she was her most relaxed.

She enjoyed spending time with Merrill, perhaps because Merrill was one of the few people in her life she actually allowed close to her; a person around whom personal barriers needn't be quite so fortified. She was intelligent, sweet, pretty, and most of all she shared with Hawke the practice of blood magic. Being with her was a true respite from her mountain daily annoyances.

And this too, Isabella was ruining.

Not intentionally of course. Dreaming of Isabella's nightly practices, feeling what Isabella felt; it all made her very sexually charged, a feeling she had denied herself for so long, almost to the point of disappearance. But it was coming back with a vengeance, and focusing itself on her Merrill.

Hawke's eyes would linger as Merrill bent over, her mind would jump head first in the gutter when she drew too close. It was in sexualizing Merrill, finally seeing her for the attractive (ravishable) young woman she was, that Hawke had had enough.

One night, after a particularly intense Isabella dream, she kicked her way into Isabella's apartments, throwing out the young man Isabella was with at the time, and proceeded to hate-sex Isabella into a state of near catatonia, much to the pirate's confusion, and eventual pleasure.

Isabella never found out why, but didn't question it when Hawke began to make a habit of breaking into her room (office, alleyway, beach) and initiating passionate anger-sex without so much as a "how do you do?"

The problem with this was, Hawke realized, that it deepened their connection. She didn't know if Isabella felt it too, but Hawke was beginning to calm down around her, become more and more comfortable, even rested and refreshed. Whatever it was that kept them in bed the first time they had sex, it was working in full force now.

Slowly, agonizingly, Isabella was becoming addictive. Literally addictive; a font of euphoric calm around whom Hawke's barriers were unfathomably lowered.

One night, after they had finished, a tangle of limbs, identical faces panting in close proximity to each other, Hawke forgot to be angry. She would forget all the trouble this person had caused her, and all she could feel is a distinct warmth; a protectiveness. It was a painful affection, and Hawke nauseated herself to describe it as almost sisterly.

"What are you thinking about Hawke?"

"You"

"Oh? I'm flattered. What do you think about when you think about me?"

"How messed up this is. How I can possibly find you attractive. Don't you think these things?"

Isabella closed her eyes in contentment, "No, I don't. I don't know what it is about you Hawke, but..." she shrugs, bare shoulders rubbing against Hawke's own.

The answer was not at all satisfying and Hawke promptly went to sleep.

It wasn't until a brief stint at the wounded coast, fighting off an inferior mercenary group, that the connection began freaking Hawke out in earnest. It was a rescue mission to find the viscount's son. They were in the process of bringing him back to Kirkwall proper until a rival mercenary band, the Winters, had shown up en masse, throwing themselves at the fight in a frenzy that took everyone by surprise.

It was in the midst of the ensuing carnage that Hawke was suddenly hit by a crippling anxiety, halting her in the middle of casting a spell. She had gazed immediately into the throng, somehow knowing exactly where to look, wading into the violence with a determination that at once alarmed and invigorated her. And without needing to be told where or why, she found Isabella struggling against a trio of rogues, floundering in the face of an enemy immune to her stealth. It was when Hawke had dispatched one of the attackers, taking him by surprise with the sudden boiling of his blood, that Isabella was able to turn the tide and dispatch the remaining two.

And just like that the anxiety was gone. Isabella had smiled at her then, and Hawke's heart softened. The pirate immediately ran off to help Carver and Aveline clean up the remaining Winters (obliterating a dogged source of competition for the Irons), apparently oblivious as to what had just happened.

Hawke was silent on the walk back to Kirkwall, which wasn't so unusual. Isabella took it as a sign to drag her to the Hanged Man when they got back, plying her with alcohol and wasting no time in starting a sloppy make-out session right there in the bar.

"What's wrong Hawke?" Isabella asked her, pulling away, "By now you would have ripped my clothes off. Or shoved me away. Why so glum?"

Hawke does not reply. Ah, so Isabella noticed something at least, figures that sex had to factor in for that to happen.

Isabella sighs, "I can already tell what fantastic company you are going to be tonight," she says, sipping at her beer in exasperation.

The sarcasm is grating. "Then go be with someone else," Hawke bites, avoiding Isabella's eyes, "it makes no difference to me"

She did not know if the silence she got in return was offended or indifferent, but Isabella simply got up and left. A young nobleman took this as an opportunity to slide into the vacated seat and chat Hawke up, to which he was moodily treated to his face being slammed into the table. She couldn't blame him really. She imagined watching twins making out was quite titillating.

She received no dreams that night, but woke up frustrated anyway, throwing on a cloak and making her way to the Blooming Rose. She just knew Isabella would be there, and she just knew that she would be, miraculously, uncharacteristically alone.

And awake.

"Are you over tantrum yet?" Isabella asked. She was asleep on the bed, eyes closed. But she didn't need to see Hawke to know she was there. Hawke wondered how much of that was Isabella's considerable awareness, and how much of it was the connection. Would Isabella even know if it was the latter and not the former?

"Yes," she said, not quite meaning it but not wanting to be in an earnest fight with the pirate.

"Good"

Without much else needing to be said, Hawke disrobed, slipped into the covers, and made up for her earlier slight. Even in the act, her hands and her magic working to bring Isabella to new heights of euphoria, she regretted going to Isabella. She was calming down, calming in the way a smoker does with the first drag of a cigarette after a day without cigarettes. It was, she knew, and knew it well, the feeling of addiction. Literally an Isabella fix.

As he slipped out of bed, leaving Isabella soundly asleep, she wondered if it affected Isabella too. On the way out of the Blooming Rose she bumped into Carver and the two of them shared a very awkward walk home.

"Do you have to leave right away?" Isabella asked her one night, several days later, interrupting Hawke as she was getting re-dressed. As soon as she said it she froze.

"Yes," said Hawke gruffly, ignoring the feeling stirring in her chest that told her to stay the night, to cuddle with Isabella for just another moment.

Isabella said nothing. Solemn, disturbed, agreement. Apparently they had done this enough times for Isabella to notice that something was amiss.

Their bond was becoming tedious. But as with many things in Hawke's life, she was much too busy to deal with it any time soon.

"You're a blood mage"

Hawke sighs, "Oh get off your high horse. Yes, I'm a blood mage. You're an abomination." She is too tired to summon much more anger. The showdown in the chantry had been draining, and to be honest watching Karl slip in and out of tranquility has unsettled her, as it would any mage. "Will you give us your maps or not? Keep in mind, Anders, that I fulfilled my end of the bargain"

Anders and Hawke glare at each other, both parties obscured in the dimness of the Darktown evening. They are squared off in front of Anders's clinic, just having returned from the Chantry.

At first Anders seemed the perfect answer to their problems, though his prejudice against blood mages (for which he could not truly be faulted) was grating, but his own status as an abomination left his alliance with Hawke tenuous at best.

"Fine," he mutters, putting away his staff and digging out a large map from his coats, "I am a man of my word. Here," He hands over the maps.

"Was there something else?" Asks Hawke, noticing him make as if to speak and then stopping. Just because they don't see eye-to-eye doesn't mean they cannot at least be civil.

Anders seems to be of the same mind. "I wasn't completely honest when I said I hadn't heard of you Hawke. There are rumors of your…influence in the lower circles of Kirkwall"

"So you've heard of me. What of it?"

"I disagree with your methods, but they say that you're a friend of the refugees, and I have heard good things about your work in the alienage"

"And?"

"I would propose an alliance. As you can see my circumstances are not the most favorable, and I'm sure you could find some use for a capable mage"

Hawke scrutinizes him, seeing an earnestness uncharacteristic of most Darktown types. But the fanatical attitude gives her pause. It was in the face of every Carta dwarf she killed in the mountains. She wonders if he would die as willingly for his own cause. He is dangerous.

"Yes," the idea appeals to her. She needs a better healing teacher for Feynriel, after all. "I believe we can help each other"

She puts out her hand. Anders is about to take it when he withdraws.

"Answer me truthfully," he says, an edge to his voice. Hawke can feel Justice's mana stirring inside him. "Do you kill innocents to feed your blood magic? Like they do in Tevinter?"

Hawke stares into his eyes, summoning her own tainted mana, "Never"

He recoils at the sensation, but takes it as the honesty it is, and reaches to shake her hand. The contact is not pleasant to either of them, and they quickly separate.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

"I have to come with you!"

"No. Mother said-"

"I'm a grown man Isabelle! I'm not going to sit twiddling my thumbs in Kirkwall because my mother was afraid for me!"

Hawke jostles him away, pulling him aside so that Leandra can't hear them.

"Are you stupid? Of course you have to stay here. What do you think is going to happen to the business if one of us isn't around to keep an eye on things?"

"But…" Carver grips his sister's shoulders, distraught, "you know me Isabelle. You know I can't handle this stuff!"

Hawke sighs, "Carver you're the only one I can trust, you know that. If things get difficult...well, that's why you have Willem, and I guess Athenril if you're desperate"

"Then why can't I go and you stay?"

"Carver, just," Hawke makes an exasperated again, "I have to do this okay? Please, just do as I ask. Hold the fort for a few weeks and I'll be back before you know it. I'm counting on you"

Carver relents, knowing when he isn't going to win an argument. The two of them make their way back to the caravan where Leandra waits with baited-breath. Carver groans and moves to her side, shooting Hawke an annoyed look even as Leandra thanks her again and again.

"Are you done yet?" Asks Bartrand impatiently. Hawke slips him the finger. They're partners dammit. He can damn well wait for her to say her goodbyes.

"Merrill." The elf seems on the verge of tears, abruptly hugging the taller woman's midsection. Hawke laughs, 'Merrill I'll only be gone for a few weeks"

"I know," the elf sniffles, her face buried in Hawke's bosom, "just be careful alright? The darkspawn, they…they're dangerous. Be careful Hawke"

"I will," Hawke remembers Aveline's husband wilting away as the taint consumed him. "I'll come back to you, I promise"

Aveline is too busy to join her on the expedition, and in her place Hawke brings Fenris and Anders. Not the most cooperative of duos, but each one is more than capable in their own right. Nevertheless, Aveline has come to say her goodbyes as well; a hug and a gruff "Take care of yourself"

When those are over, Hawke is surprised to see Isabella inching her way through the crowd. She walks up to receive her.

"Isabella"

She stares at her own face; a perfect veneer of amused disaffection. Isabella never emotes what she really feels, not unless the two of them are alone. Hawke feels the pull, the urge to take Isabella in her arms, that addictive impulse that plagues her whenever the pirate is near. Judging by the quaver in Isabella's hand, the feeling is mutual. Hawke wonders if Isabella suspects the truth of the matter.

And if not that, how is Isabella interpreting her own feelings?

"Come back safe alright?"

"I will." The familiarity of the exchange makes Hawke uncomfortable, but warm. "Watch the Rose while I'm gone. Don't sample the merchandise too much"

"Of course," Isabella smirks, comfortable with the shift into banter, "and I can use the fifth company while you're gone, right?"

The fifth company is a sapper unit within the Irons that Hawke has sanctioned for Isabella's quest to find the Tome. They are instructed to help Isabella any way they can, though if they actually find something then they are ordered do everything in their power to secure it for Hawke, and for Hawke alone.

"Yes, feel free. Turn Kirkwall on its head"

They share a laugh. Hawke can no longer resist, and she leans in to give Isabella a peck on the cheek. Light, meaningless; it is enough, but not.

"I'll see you then"

"Yeah"

And with nothing further needing to be said, the caravan leaves for the deep roads.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke sleeps.

"Oh hello, I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon"

The fade reveals itself to her in all its esoteric glory. A gnarled landscape stretching beneath the floating platform on which she stands. The platform is littered with trees that spindle into unnatural shapes. Underneath these, however, is a mundane-looking desk, along with a few bookshelves that Hawke recognizes as the features of Feynriel's house. The man himself is seated at the desk, poring over a tome she had given him.

"Feynriel? What are you doing here?"

He taps his chin, "You know, I'm not sure"

"This is the fade, Feynriel. We covered it in your lessons"

"How strange…it feels right here somehow. As if I'm coming home to something but I can't remember what. Oh? Where are you going?"

The world shifts around Hawke until she is standing in the wreckage of Lothering. Feynriel is no longer there, but instead she is joined by a figure wreathed in light.

The spirit doesn't smile, not that Hawke can sense anyway, but she gets the impression that that is exactly what it is doing. Its entire body is a faint outline of flickering white light; the shape of a woman…or is it a man? The features can't really be pinned down. But it shifts, luminescent plates and eddies swirling to reflect some semblance of mood and expression.

"Oh. It's you. I should have known"

The spirit says nothing.

"I would almost take another Isabella sex dream over spending time with you, you mute monster"

The spirit makes a motion that could be loosely interpreted as a shrug, crossing its arms and tossing its head back over one shoulder.

"Shut up," Hawke hisses, despite knowing full well that the spirit hadn't said anything, "and bring back Feynriel. At least when he was around I couldn't remember where I was in the real world"

The spirit's shoulders shake as if in laughter.

Hawke does not rise to the bait. "Maker you're annoying. I hate you with a passion I doubt you have the capacity to fathom. Unless you have something useful to say I'm going to wake up now"

The spirit does a backflip for no discernible reason.

"I would almost give you back my blood magic if it would get you to shut up"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke wakes.

"Shit"

She takes stock of her surroundings, finding darkness and cave in seemingly limitless supply.

"Shit" indeed. Hawke is still in the deep roads. Groggily she climbs to her feet and stares out into the gloom. She smells of BO and dirt, and her clothes are torn in places she'd rather they were not. The damage is not because she let and blades or claws stray too close, but because of darkspawn blood having splashed onto her robes and melted through. Her muscles are sore and she aches for a bath.

The fire of the encampment is weak. It is very cold.

"Why are we still here!?" She yells, effectively waking Anders and Fenris, though they screw their eyes shut and pretend not to hear. On the other hand, Varric, who had up until that point been keeping watch, is thoroughly alarmed.

"Hawke, don't do that!" His ponytail is undone, wild wisps of blonde hair poking out like a disheveled porcupine. The trip, along with Bartrand's betrayal, weighs heavily on his body and mind.

"What!?" She yells, refusing to speak in anything other than outraged screams, "Why not?! We've been here for a week and we're going to die beneath the surface like the bajillion deepstalkers we killed a day ago! All because of your greedy douche-sack brother!"

She kicks the nearby decapitated head of a hurlock. It sails off into the distance, making a soft thud. Hawke falls to her knees, wailing in agony as her toe has broken upon the impact. With a sigh, Anders gets up and heals it, grumbling the entire time.

"That's it!" Hawke screams, surging back to her feet. Fenris scrunches his nose in annoyances and tries to cancel out the noise by pulling his pack over his head. "I'm going to go kill more darkspawn, because if I don't I'm going to kill one of you!"

She storms off, then storms back, muttering "I forgot my staff," rummaging through the tent and bringing it out. Her subsequent exit is slightly more subdued, but no less angry.

Unfortunately, it seems they had already dispatched most of the nearby darkspawn, as well as the nearby deepstalkers and the nearby giant spiders. And so it is with clouded judgment that Hawke walks boldly ever-farther into the darkness, magic trembling at her fingertips, searching for something to kill. She desperately needs something to kill, and when she kills it, she will pretend it is Bartrand, the traitorous little monkey. Many are the fantasies Hawke has thought up in the days since he locked her in the Deep Roads, so many in fact that were Bartrand to appear in front of her right now, she would have considerable difficulty choosing any one.

Well, it would not be too difficult a decision. Maybe she would seek out Varric first, get some fratricidal vengeance going on.

Oh wait. Where is Varric? With a sinking heart, Hawke realizes that in her ardor, she has strayed much too far from the group, and is hopelessly lost.

"Great"

It is an unnerving feeling, being lost in almost complete darkness. The only light in this increasingly narrow tunnel is the placid bobbing of a willow-the-wisp floating above her head. The walls are decorated in primeval dwarven fashion, and the eerie patterns do nothing to assuage her nerves. Their shadows loom dramatically in the light of the wisp.

It is silent.

Hawke kicks a pebble, eliciting a chorus of clacks as it tumbles along, echoing fiercely across the rocky hallway. The clacking continues longer that it ought to have, giving Hawke the initial impression that the tunnel takes a sudden turn for the downhill.

She is soon rectified when the pebble comes back, only now as the foot of some sort of shambling rock creature still in the process of being formed. Finally it settles into a sort of triangular figure, vaguely humanoid in a craggy, unsettling sort of way. It has white lights at its crown that Hawke takes to be eyes.

Hawke and the rock-wraith stare at each other in seeming incomprehension. They might have remained that way had a trio of additional not rock wraiths stepped into the light, arraying themselves behind the original.

The lights turn red.

"Oh boy"

The wraiths burst into activity, launching electric projectiles from spindly arms in Hawke's direction. Some of them simply charge. Hawke endures the electricity, stalling her attackers by pulling them into a gravity well. She pricks her thumb while they are disoriented, feeling for signs of life and finding none. She curses, launching a tried-and-true fireball into their midst, scattering rock and dust every which way. The wraiths splinter, pieces breaking off with the intensity of the flame, though if it hurts them they show no indication. They charge en masse.

Hawke dispatches them easily, spikes of ice rising to impale and destroy. But before she knows it, more rock wraiths appear, and even more behind those. Hawke groans, slipping a knife across her wrist and preparing herself for what is likely going to be a long fight.

She is not wrong.

Scores of the rock wraiths pile out from the end of the tunnel, tumbling out of unseen crevices, making unearthly screeches as they form. They slowly push Hawke back with their unfaltering onslaught, dying by the dozens in a hail of Hawke's fire, ice, earth and force. Only a few ever get close enough to land a physical hit, but Hawke becomes exhausted anyway. She bleeds herself to excess, fueling her mana reserves with a cut here and a nick there, keeping the enemies at bay with her blood, ounce-by-ounce. Already she is feeling woozy, wobbling ever backwards.

She can't keep this up.

One rock wraith finally tackles her to the ground, pounding against her own rock armor until the chest-piece is about cracked. So this is how I go thinks Hawke, underwhelmed by the stupidity of it all. She always thought that if she were going to die, it would be fighting off a horde of Templar barbarians at the staircase of some grand structure. It is an overly-dramatic fantasy, she knows, but Hawke has always been a secretly dramatic person.

No, instead it is a race between a mob of murderous rock wraiths and her swiftly draining lifeblood. Despair takes root, and she feels the will to go on draining with her energy.

On the surface Isabella wakes up from a terrible nightmare, startling the prostitutes asleep on the floor. What the hell was that?

A thought occurs to Hawke, an idea. A painfully obvious idea that she would never had considered even an hour before. If she goes out then she may as well go out with a bang.

She feels for the fade and it comes easily, intangible tendrils flitting across the surface of her consciousness, and she realizes that the spirit has been with her the entire time, waiting. It would be so easy to reach out and go full abomination, succumb to that terrible power. She has always wondered what it would feel like…

"There she is!"

Oh thank the maker. The rock wraith above her is smashed into rubble as a giant hammer sinks into its head. It is the sweetest sight, even nicked and bloodied as it is. Fenris leaps into the fray, backed up from behind by a hail of bolts that takes the rock wraiths by surprise. She hears the souds of battle as if from far away.

"Let's get you healed up," someone says.

Hawke decides right then and there, as Anders pulls her out from under a limp rock carcass, that she will be nicer to him from now on. Healing magic fills her limbs like so many needles, at once painful and invigorating. And then all she knows is utter drowsiness.

"Guysh," she slurs, "I foun' a passasheway. Look," she waves vaguely in what she hopes is the direction of the rock wraiths, though really she is pointing at Varric's crotch.

"Uh, okay….just go to sleep now Hawke"

"Oh man Andersh, from now on I'm not giving you shit about bein' an abomi- abominano- abominamamano…glowy thingy. You seriously gotta teach me this spell. I swear, such a good high….*snore*"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke walks out into the light of the actual sun, savoring the feeling of it against her skin. She feels so good that she actually turns and hugs Fenris, who is himself much too relieved to shake her off in disgust.

Kirkwall is as crummy as it always was, but in the light of day it is beautiful. What is a piss-stain on the wall in comparison to the blood of darkspawn on your clothes? What is the sound of a mugging in the next alley over in comparison to the screech of rock wraiths in the shadowy distance? What is a noble turning up his nose at you in comparison to a demon enraged because you wouldn't take its deal?

Nothing, that's what. Besides, if the normalcy of the surface is not enough, then at least the fact that one is very, very rich is an able consolation. And Hawke is now very, terribly, vastly rich. The smile on her face is almost disturbingly wide.

"Er, Hawke?"

"Yes Varric?"

"Isn't that the Red Irons headquarters?"

Hawke's smile falters, devolving into a paltry grin, and then into a blank expression. In front of her lies the smoking ruins of the Red Irons headquarters, her base of operations. It has burned to the ground. She checks the surrounding houses to see if they are in the right place. She rubs her eyes. They are in the right place.

Her expression turns positively murderous.


	6. Chapter 6

The thing about leaving town is that you won't be around to look after all of your stuff. Your plants will need watering, your pets will need feeding, and someone is going to have to pick up your mail. Typically you leave these activities to someone you trust, and if that person is capable, even better.

Isabelle Hawke returned to Kirkwall to find her entire operation in shambles. The headquarters in upper-Lowtown was destroyed, many of her men either dead or assimilated into two-bit extortion rackets. Her properties were still intact, but had become slums seemingly overnight, with efforts on the part of the city to tear them down.

Shit was basically fucked up.

As she was investigating this, her companions went their separate ways; Fenris to brood in his mansion, Anders to tend to his clinic, and Varric to stare moodily into his fire while sipping a strong drink. Hawke is tempted to join him.

Thankfully her house is still intact. There's no way anyone would try attacking a Carta neighborhood. Just in case however, Carver had Leandra relocated. Unfortunately, the only piece of Hawke's properties that could still be considered habitable was a brothel, which means that for the last three weeks her mother had been living in the company of the whores and clients of the Blooming Rose.

It's true, nobody would have thought to look for her there, but Hawke didn't like it. She really didn't like it.

"Isabelle!" Leandra throws her arms around her daughter, already crying with relief. "Isabelle, oh I thought you were dead! We all thought you were dead!"

Hawke hugs her back, savoring the affection. Spending time underground in the company of two men she doesn't like very much has made her starved for familial love.

"I'm fine mother. I'm fine. I am so, so sorry you had to stay here"

Leandra laughs, sputtering though the tears. "You almost die and you're worried about me? It's alright child. The…employees have all been very nice. And Isabella has even let me use her apartments"

Hawke feels herself go faint. "You've been staying in Isabella's apartment? You've slept in her bed?!" Oh the things they have done on that bed.

"Don't fuss dear. I've been fine. Oh, but I've been so for you"

"You haven't been outside all this time?"

"No. Carver told me that it might be for the best"

Hawke grasps Leandra's hand, "I'm so sorry you got involved in all this"

Leandra sighs, "It's okay child. You don't think I'm used to this kind of drama after being married to your father?" She laughs, "Besides, the girls are such delightful company. Isabella has done a good job here"

"The…girls…you've been… the girls?" Hawke almost collapses in mortification.

"I'm a big girl Isabelle, and they are very nice people. Oh but some of the clients even thought I was an employee. And at my age! Let me tell you, that was quite flattering"

"Mother!"

Before Leandra can reply, the sounds of screams emanate from the lobby. "What was that?"

"Stay here," says Hawke, nudging her mother back into the chair. She moves out the door, locking it. Stabbing her staff into the floor, she places trap runes outside before rushing to see what the commotion is about. People are swarming out the front door, fumbling over one another and screaming in terror.

At the center of the now vacated mingling area is a tall foreboding man with braided hair. A girl is laid out on a table, a fresh cut made along her throat. Blood pours out of the wound, but she still clings to life, her body trembling erratically. Her blood evaporates as the man's face draws near it, turning into a red mist that he inhales into his nostrils. He closes his eyes in elation. When he opens them again, his eyes are a uniform black.

He bears the robes of the Imperium, and wields a gnarled black staff. A blood mage.

Looking down from the balcony, Hawke's eyes meet his. He grins.

"Did the coterie send you?"

The man points his staff in reply, launching a fireball that breaks the stone railing of the balcony. Hawke jumps for cover, landing behind another section of railing. She is sent jumping once again at the explosion of another fireball. Charred masonry tumbles to the ground, along with her staff. Hawke curses, slipping behind the wall to one of the rooms.

"We're playing it that way, huh?"

She peeks her head out the doorway. The mage is climbing the stairs smoothly, taking his time cool as you please. His every action sets Hawke on edge.

Hawke steps out of the doorway, deflecting the sudden fireball with her hands. The mage's grin falters, and before he can follow up he's sent careening across the room with an overpowered force-push.

"Bitch!" She yells, as he sails into the wall.

Hawke rushes down the stairs, scrabbling for her staff among the rubble. No sooner has she recovered it and donned rock-armor than she's put on the defensive by a crushing pressure all around her. Squeezing, constricting; the inexplicable sound of screaming presses against her eardrums. Hawke can see the mage hobbling in the foyer, supporting himself with his staff. He has a bleeding hand outstretched, closing his fingers as if he's trying to make a fist. Hawke can feel him pouring all his mana into the spell, every last drop blood consumed to fuel the spell. Inneficient.

Hawke withstands the onslaught, dipping into her own blood supply to endure. She stems the bleeding immediately, not fully recovered from the Deep Roads. It isn't long until the man is drained, and he drops to one knee, panting.

Hawke's rock armor slips off her body, mostly broken from the strength of his spell, but she is, for the most part, fine. Her retaliation lacks elegance, but it takes the Tevinter by surprise. She sprints the distance between them and catches his jaw with a full swing of her staff. Physical combat was never her strong suit, but her backswing is strong enough to break bones.

The man's jaw breaks instantly, and before he can recover Hawke has jammed a foot on his nose.

She presses the end of her staff against his face; a light pressure, but threatening. It is all she can do to resist the seething anger begging to reduce every bone in the man's body into paste. "I'll ask again. Did the Coterie send you?"

The man stares into her eyes. He nods.

"To kill me?"

He shakes her head. "To…burn…to burn-" blood splutters out of his mouth

"To burn down the Blooming Rose?"

A nod.

Satisfied, Hawke summons an icicle at the end of her staff. It slides easily into the man's brain, killing him far quicker than Hawke would have liked. As the life drains from the mage's eyes, Hawke drops her staff and makes her way to the side of the young prostitute bleeding on the table.

There is no pulse; the girl is dead.

"Dammit"

The girl stares blankly into the air, mouth open slack. Hawke closes her eyes, swiping her palm over inert eyelids.

"Hawke"

Hawke turns to the sight of Anders, out of breath and lingering at the entrance of the Rose. His eyes widen at the sight of the girl and he makes his way to her side.

"Don't bother," says Hawke, "she's dead"

"I was too late then"

"Yeah. I guess. What are we talking about exactly?"

He turns to the corpse of the mage bleeding on the floor. "I know this man. He…used to be a part of the mage underground"

"This was the mage underground!? Do I have to go hunting for them now too?"

"No! No. This man was part of a group of radicals. Dissenters. They sell their skills for money; often resorting to crude forms of blood magic. They call themselves the Wretched"

"If they're anything like this guy then they don't have much training"

"That's poor consolation," Anders says, closing the dead mage's eyes. "It's a shame. So many young mages lose their way because they have nowhere else to turn. Eventually it consumes them, turns them into monsters"

"This one had power but no training"

"A contact in the Mage Underground let me know that this was going to happen. I came here to warn you"

"You're going to give me that contact's name. They came to burn down the Rose. Do you think they'll send anyone else?"

"Not likely. They don't have many members, so they probably won't risk attacking you after you already killed one of their own." He picks up Hawke's staff and hands it to her. "Then again, blood mages aren't the most rational individuals so…"

"So I just made another enemy. Great. Thank the maker for kicking me while I'm down." Hawke stalks up the stairs to make sure her mother is okay, "I can't imagine how this situation could get any worse"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

It gets worse.

"So"

"So"

Hawke stares at her brother with an expression Carver recognizes as serene malice. It is the look she used to give him back in Lothering when he teased her a little too much, and it was usually followed by much shouting and drubbings.

"You…are a Templar now." She grimaces in distaste.

"Er…It's a long story"

"Give me the short version"

"The Coterie came after us after you left. I…suppose you heard"

"Yeah I heard," says Hawke rubbing at a bandaged cut on her forehead where stray rubble had caught her. She hadn't felt it at the time.

"After they took out headquarters they started coming after me personally. Mother too. I had the dwarves relocate her"

"Yeah I saw her. She's well"

"Good. Good. I tried to recoup our losses but…they came after me pretty strong. Nowhere was safe so…"

"So here you are"

Carver laughs nervously. "Coterie wouldn't dare strike at the Templars right? Not in this city." A silence extends between them. Hawke's unceasing gaze is unnerving. "I'm…sorry. I let you down. You trusted me and-"

"Not going to lie Carver," says Hawke, a little louder than necessary, "I'm pretty fucking disappointed"

"Well you shouldn't have left me in charge!" He says, stress clearly-accentuated on his features, "I told you not to and you did anyway! Like suddenly I'm supposed to be a great administrator as if I hadn't proven time and again how shit I am at anything other than being a soldier!"

"Oh, so it's my fault now?!"

"No! No, that's not what I'm trying to say. Maker! Don't put words in my mouth," he habitually ruffles his own hair, an agitated-tic. "I'm just saying you share some of the blame. I wasn't at all prepared for what the Coterie threw at me"

Hawke throws her hands in the air, biting back the impulse to lash out at him. "Okay! Fine! It was my fault too! Are you happy?"

"A little bit, yes!"

Brother and sister look at each other in exasperation. Other people in the Gallows visiting area cast them disapproving glances, not that either of them really notices. For a time, they are both children again, wanting badly to pull on each other's hair or sucker punch each other's arm, but too conscientious of their age to actually do it.

"Well in any case I'm rich now," grumbles Hawke, "so if you want we could probably pull you out of here"

"You starting up the Irons again?"

"No. Not for a while anyway. The whole organization has gone to shit"

"Well for what it's worth I'm sorry about that"

"And I guess I'm sorry too. I should have made…contingencies"

Carver's look softens, "You need more people you can trust Isabelle, it can't just be me." He laughs in amused self-depreciation, "I mean, clearly I'm not the best option"

"You know that's always been hard for me"

"I know Isabelle, I know." He takes her hand. "I'm fine where I am for now. Maybe I can help you, from the inside, if ever you want to get the operation going again"

"Carver, I only just got back and everything's so messed up. I...I don't know if..."

"You're the strongest person I know. You'll get through this. Just follow your instincts"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke's instincts tell her to kill people.

The Coterie does not have an official headquarters, as it is actually a series of organizations that operate under the management of a few top lieutenants, all reporting back to the same Grand Don. However if someone were hard-pressed to point out such a headquarters, they would likely point to the Grand Don's house.

The confusing thing about said Grand Don's house is that is actually located in Lowtown, and not Hightown as most people might guess. Presumably this is because it is the neighborhood in where the Grand Don grew up, or perhaps because it is the only place in Kirkwall in which safety is absolutely guaranteed. Most likely however, the Grand Don is there because most people would not as much; even the Carta lieutenants take orders from via a confusing system of go-betweens, ignorant of their employer's exact locations.

The Coterie at large doesn't know where he lives, but the Carta does. And as an unofficial ally of the Carta, so too does Hawke.

The doorguard doesn't recognize her, and neither does the second doorguard. But when she refuses to leave they get their supervisor, and she definitely recognizes Hawke, pulling out a dagger only to be knocked down with a mind-blast. She cringes, expecting to be killed instantly, but Hawke extends a hand, forcibly helping her up.

"I only want to talk"

The lieutenant is hesitant, but as soon as she regains herself she immediately summons an armed guard to escort Hawke inside the building.

It is a short walk, and the interior of the house is surprisingly empty. It isn't until they reach a large central chamber, adorned in the trappings of a simplistic bedroom, that they encounter another person.

To Hawke's surprise, it is a dusty old woman peeling a potato.

She ignores them, entirely focused on the task at hand, lips taut in concentration. The footsoldiers stare rigidly ahead, almost military in their discipline.

Finally the old woman finishes peeling, tossing the potato in a bucket with a "plop" and wiping her brow. She looks up, assessing the soldiers before dismissing them with a wave of her hand.

"Are you sure, Ma'am?" Asks the lieutenant, surprised at the dismissal, "She-"

"I am well aware of Serrah Hawke's talents," says the old woman, her voice a gruff rasp. "You may go, Cecilia"

The soldiers exit the room. The lieutenant follows, casting the two women a wary glance before backing out the door. Finally Hawke and the Grand Don are left alone.

"Please, sit," she says, almost sounding pleased. She is a tall woman, and thin, though hardly frail; she has a wiry musculature and energy that belies her age. She stares at Hawke with bright gray eyes.

Hawke takes a seat in the cushioned sofa opposite, leaning her elbows on her knees to mirror her host.

"Cecilia is afraid that you're going to kill me"

"She's right. I am going to kill you"

The old woman chuckles, "You gave her quite a scare a couple months back. She still has nightmares you know. Of how you killed her men. It was her first command post, incidentally. She's been afraid to lead ever since"

"If you heard about that then why on earth did you dismiss your guards?"

"Curiosity I suppose. Wanted to meet the woman who has my whole organization in an uproar." She resumes her potato peeling. "So, you did come to kill me?"

"Yes. But now I'm conflicted. I didn't expect you to be...this"

The old woman cackles. "I thought so. You strike me as a considerate woman. Not impulsive. Refreshing in a gang leader"

"I'm not a gang leader"

"Ha! Of course not! You're just the kind of person who has men assassinated to take over their business"

"You don't seem too beat up over it"

The old woman cackles, "Harlan was a thug. There's no love lost between he and I"

"And yet you had the majority of my organization decimated while I was away. You know how much it's going to cost rebuilding all of that?"

"Yes, well. There is that. Can you blame me? I had to send some kind of message or else I'd look weak. Besides, without you around to reign in your operation, there's no telling what your people would do. It was a volatile situation, so I had it handled"

"You "Had it handled!?" Seriously? If you're trying to convince me not to kill you, you aren't doing avery good job"

"Yes. Yes I suppose I'm not. I'll bet it would be easy for you too. But we both already know that you won't"

Hawke glowers. "Don't be so sure." She points the end of her staff at the old woman's forhead.

The old woman is unfazed. She finishes peeling her potato, plopping it into the bucket. "You know you remind me of myself when I was your age. Of course I was only a simple businesswoman when I got started, and I didn't have magic. But I was just as trigger-happy. But, I've been doing business forty-seven years now, and you don't get to be as influential as me with just the ability to kill people at a whim. You want to know my secret?"

"What's that?"

"Rationality. Approach all things rationally and you can get to be my age. So yes, you could kill me now? but really, you're too smart for that. Think it over, you'd realize that all that would accomplish is create a power vacuum, and that would mean war, infighting. And for all anyone ever knows that would just mean the Templars would have to come in and put the lot of us down. No, if you're smart you'll have to wait to kill me, dearie"

"Maybe I'm not feeling so smart right now"

The old woman chuckles, "Good heavens, child. I know you're type. You can't stop being smart"

Hawke lowers the staff. "Then what was this about?"

"Like I said, I wanted to meet you. And hopefully stop you from retaliating against the Coterie. It would be such an awful loss of life…No, what I propose is a cease-fire of sorts. You leave me alone and I'll leave you alone"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that"

"I'll start up my group again"

"I would expect you to"

"And I can't just let you get away with what you've done. You had the Blooming Rose attacked for Maker's sake. A girl died"

The old woman sighs. "Ah, yes. That was indeed a shame. One of my lieutenants ordered that. Has no compunctions about the contract killers he hires. Anyway, you don't have to worry about him anymore. Just think about what I said, eh? This can be beneficial for the both of us"

Hawke stares at this enigmatic woman, unheeding of the door opening and admitting the Coterie lieutenant from before. Hawke feels a hand on her shoulder. She rises, whirling around, eyes blood-red with anger-induced magic. Cecilia cringes. The old woman cackles, "What did I tell you? Impulsive!"

Cecilia seems shamed at her own fear, and forces herself to meet Hawke's gaze. She can't stop herself from trembling.

"Cecilia will show you out now"

With a final at the old woman, Hawke lets Cecilia walk her to the entrance.

"Your boss is crazy you know that?"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke's meeting with the Grand Don was unsettling, but their exchange is a welcome relief. In many ways the meeting went astronomically better than she could have hoped, with much less bloodstains on her clothes than she anticipated. But demons move in confusing ways, and not all of them live in the fade. She'll have to watch herself with that woman.

Still, not having to worry about further Coterie antagonism is a weight off her shoulders. She was about ready to go on a city-wide killing spree for a moment there.

Oh well! Crisis averted! Hawke allows herself to feel optimistic.

So in lieu of killing, Hawke instead spends her time visiting friends who had long been under the assumption that she was dead.

Her reunion with Merrill starts out much like it did with Leandra, with arms being thrown around her and much tearful sputtering. It is a warm feeling; the Deep Roads had instilled in her an appreciation of the simple things; sunlight for one, clean oxygen, food that isn't roasted deepstalker, the clear adoration of her little elven student.

It's almost overwhelming.

Merrill doesn't say anything, just sort of weeps into the fabric of Hawke's robes. It isn't unwelcome attention though, and she maintains her embrace on her friend, neither of them letting go even when Hawke awkwardly falls back onto Merrill's sofa.

"I thought you were dead," mumbles Merrill, though with her face pressed against Hawke's bosom it sounds more like, "mttthtwrrted." Hawke laughs, stroking Merrill's hair in patient reassurance.

"I'm alive Merrill"

Merrill shakes her head, shifting the layers of Hawke's robe. It is an utterly charming motion.

"Alright now," says Hawke gently prompting Merrill to lean back. She wipes away Merrill's tears. "I'm glad to see you Merrill"

Merrill nods, unable to bring herself to say anything. The relief is overwhelming. Instead she gets up, bustling about her home to make Hawke a cup of tea, fighting down her emotions.

"Mmm," says Hawke, savoring the aroma wafting from the cup Merrill hands her. "I've missed this"

"You'll have to tell me all about the Deep roads sometime. I'll bet it was an adventure! I…I was so afraid when-"

"That's enough of that. I'm alive, let's move on." She sips her tea, nodding appreciatively. "How have you been Merrill?"

"I've been…good. Things have been hectic, what with the old headquarters burning down, and people thinking you were dead. Some of the men died, though I hear most of them work elsewhere. A few of them have been here in the alienage. The elven recruits brought them, which was nice. The Red Irons have a good reputation in this neighborhood"

"I'm glad to hear it"

"It was so strange actually; the troops started acting like I was in charge. Even the human ones! Can you imagine? I was so flustered! I hadn't the faintest idea how to behave like a leader. I can't be all tough like Aveline, or charismatic like Isabella. But then Athenril helped me and told me how to act"

"Er…how was that?"

"Well, she told me to act like you actually. And all that really means is not talking very much, and being dour and broody as much as possible, and to wear all black and several layers of robes which can be really cumbersome sometimes"

Hawke doesn't know whether to be offended or flattered. "And that worked?"

"Oh yes! Very well in fact! We were able to repel a few raids on the alienage, and the troops actually listened to me! I mean, it was almost entirely Athenril's doing. She gave me the credit though, which was nice of her. Feynriel stuck around to help me for a while but eventually he left to take over Anders' clinic. So really it's just been me and Athenril, taking care of the Alienage, drumming up business. I have no idea how you do it!"

Hawke smiles, shaking her head in that way people do when they are happy to be proven wrong. "I'm proud of you Merrill"

"Oh!" Merrill hides her face, flustered, "It was no big deal really. Like I said I had a lot of help and-"

Hawke grips the elf's shoulder, "I'm serious. I've been treating you like a kid when all along you've been this capable young woman. You don't need me anymore"

Merrill is speechless, staring up into Hawke's eyes with wide-eyed wonder. "Oh no that's not true! I'll never stop needing you Hawke." She pales at the impromptu admittance, and her cheeks color red. "I mean, that is…erm…nevermind!"

Hawke raises a single amused eyebrow. Merrill couldn't….could she?

Nah, probably not.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke is rather ashamed of herself at the moment.

Well, not really ashamed. Resignedly self-disappointed? No, that's the same thing. Hawke promptly gives up assigning a label to her conflicted emotions.

No sooner had she left Merrill's house than she had walked to the Hanged Man, where she had met up with Isabella, and promptly fell in the pirates bed.

Shame isn't the right word for what she's feeling, but it's pretty close. There's also, pleasure, vindication. Satisfaction.

Oh yeah, satisfaction figures pretty high up there.

Isabella is currently curled up naked against her back. The big spoon. She has just told Hawke that she has missed her, that she wouldn't cuddle with just anybody you know. It's the addiction speaking; Hawke knows that now. Isabella is much too insecure and flighty to be like this with someone she has met hardly four months ago. Caring, soft; she wonders if Isabella feels it too.

But Hawke isn't going to bring that up. The addiction works two ways after all, and on her part Hawke is enjoying it after weeks underground. The way Isabella is brushing her fingers over the inside of her thighs, teasing the tips of her breasts; it is both maddening and spectacular.

"You've missed me, huh?" Asks Hawke, her voice hitching.

"Oh yes. For some reason it seems no-one can satisfy me like you can. It's disturbingly egotistic of me, really. But who am I to deny self-indulgence?"

"I suppose without self-indulgence you would be, well, me"

"You think so?" asks Isabella, becoming much less subtle with her ministrations. Hawke's breathing quickens, she writhes against Isabella. "I don't know if I could do it. Be all severe and secretly power-hungry like you"

She plunges a finger inside Hawke, eliciting a moan. The pirate knows her way around a woman.

"Don't you think there's more to life?" Asks Hawke, her voice wavering, "To having power? Riches?"

"I suppose so," says Isabella, breath hot against Hawke's neck, "to some degree. But those just don't appeal to me like they do to you"

"Why not?"

Isabella sighs, "Do you really want to talk while I do this?"

Hawke hesitates, then shakes her head no.

"That's what I thought"

Isabella takes her time bringing Hawke to climax, teasing her. She bites Hawke's neck more than once, knowing that Hawke likes that, and she sinks her teeth especially hard right at the very end. Hawke tenses against her, trembling with the shockwaves of pleasure coursing throughout her body, burying her face in a pillow to silence her cries. When it passes, she relaxes; a boneless heap in Isabella's arms.

She easily falls asleep.

She wakes up some time later. Isabella is seated at her desk, poring over a journal that Hawke suspects records the various leads she has on the whereabouts of the Tome of Koslun. She snorts in amusement; the studious look is completely at odds with Isabella's usual presentation.

"Awake are we?"

"The idea of you writing in a book instead of being in bed with a beautiful woman is too funny for me to stay asleep"

Isabella grins. She kicks off her boots and saunters back to the bed. "I never thought I would say this but I'm actually too tired for any more sex. Isabelle Hawke, I do believe you wore me out"

"What can I say? I am a woman of many skills"

Isabella slumps into the covers, wrapping her arms contentedly around Hawke.

"Tell me about yourself Isabella"

"Hmm? Why so curious all of a sudden?"

"I don't know anything about you, for one. And we do happen to look exactly alike"

"Hmm, you think there's some secret in my past that will clue you as to why? It's just a coincidence Hawke"

"Now you're being pragmatic? Come on, indulge me"

Isabella shakes her head in agitation, "Let's just drop it okay? It's not something I like talking about"

Frustration. Isabella is so cagey, much too guarded, even now. It would be so easy to just reach and make her open up...somehow, wouldn't that be easier?

Something shifts.

Hawke gasps, her fingers tingling as if they're numb. What the hell was that?

Isabella's expression changes, shifting from annoyed to conciliatory. She sits up and sighs. "Get dressed. If we're going to do this then we should be drinking." She fishes around beneath her bed until she finds a flagon of brandy. She takes a long gulp.

"Wait, just like that you're going to talk to me now?"

"I guess so," says Isabella passing Hawke the flagon.

Hawke hesitates before accepting it, uncorking it with her thumb and taking a swig. She grimaces at the taste. It is obscenely strong.

"Holy shit Isabella what is this?"

Isabella laughs, "Its Rivaini brandy. Give it a moment, the aftertaste is spectacular"

Sure enough, a few seconds and the lingering taste of something tangy and salty at the same time sinks into her taste buds. "That is good"

"I know right? That's Rivaini brewing for you, you have to overcome a strong barrier before getting to the sweetness behind it." Isabella accepts back the bottle, "I'm Rivaini originally"

"Well I already knew that much. Tell me about your childhood"

"My childhood?" She scoffs, "I didn't have much of one. I lived with my mother near the harbor. She was a fortune teller. Not a real one, mind you. She passed out cheap baubles and called them charms"

"How do you know they didn't work?"

"You mean do I think she could do magic? If she was an actual mage I think she would have found a better way to keep food on the table. Or turned into an abomination. No, eventually she converted to the Qun. Not by her own volition, of course. The woman was much too impious for that. This was during the Qunari occupation, so it was a forced conversion. That didn't stop her from selling me into marriage to an Antivan Crow, or an associate of them, I'm not sure"

Isabella's expression turns soft. Not angry, but mournful. It hurts her to remember these things.

"You don't have to-"

But Isabella goes on, as if hypnotized. "For years I was little more than that man's plaything. He bought me pretty things and kept me fed and healthy, but it was a cage. A gilded cage, but cage nonetheless. I hate cages. I couldn't…he…ugh, one day he asked me to entertain for his friends. You can't imagine how terrified I felt then." She shivers. "I swore I would never be boxed into such a corner ever again"

"What happened?"

"Well," Isabella brightens, "it gets better. Before anything could happen to me an assassin came along and killed my husband. My life's been pretty good ever since"

"Soo…nothing magical?"

"Not that I can recall. Sorry." Isabella takes another swig of her brandy, passing it to Hawke. "I can't believe I told you all that," she says, bewildered, released from her reverie. "That was…why did I just tell you that?"

"Er…you felt like opening up?"

"Don't joke. That was…really weird. Maybe it's something in the brandy?"

"Isabella please"

Fear. Isabella tries to hide it but she's afraid. Through the bond Hawke can feel her distress mounting. Hawke's fingertips tingle and she reaches out, twists.

Isabella calms down. She looks at Hawke, a confused crease in her brow. She smiles, and the gravity of what she has just done shocks Hawke to the core. "What were we talking about again?"

Hawke's heartbeat quickens, not only because she realizes the full extent of the power she holds over Isabella, but because she wonders if, like the addiction, it can work both ways.

She takes Isabella into her arms, whispering apologies that have no meaning.


	7. Chapter 7

"Am I a gang leader Varric?"

Varric's irises are glazed over, urbid wells that lazily turn towards Hawke's direction.

"Why do you ask?" He says, voice carrying the most delicate of slurs.

"A strange old woman called me one, and about five drinks ago I started to think that maybe…maybe she was right." Hawke's elbow slips off the armrest, her hand slack. An empty bottle slips through her fingers clattering to the floor. "Make that six drinks ago"

"How do you figure?"

Hawke sighs, settling into the stone armchair, eyelids drooping, staring unceasingly into the fire. She reaches to the table behind them for another bottle.

"I've made some questionable decisions. I'm no saint, I know that better than anyone. But I like to think I was doing something…I don't know, right. But then I turn my back for a minute only to find out my whole kingdom was made of salt"

"Four weeks"

"What?"

"You turned your back for four weeks. We were down there for four weeks"

"Whatever. You know what I'm trying to say. I am a gangster. A thug. I don't know exactly when, but somewhere along the line I started behaving like one, thinking like one, building my empire out of grit and muscle alone. Ugh, I forgot to use my brain. When did that happen?" She pops open the bottle, taking a swig, "I'll tell you when. Isabella. I didn't used to be so stupid. But Isabella made me stupid"

"Hawke," deadpans Varric, "I pride myself on being one of your closest friends, but even I have no idea what you're talking about right now"

"It's….bluh. Nevermind, it's complicated." She waves her arm at him, "Look, my point is…my point is everything's gone to shit and I have to be smarter from now on. We have to be smarter from now on. You and me buddy, we're the brains of all the operations"

"Sure, Hawke." His usual charisma is completely absent, a dull grumble in place of his voice, "brains"

Even in her drink-induced stupor Hawke recognizes this. "Hey cheer up man. C'mon. Okay, I'm sorry, I've been talking…talking about myself this whole time. Let's talk about you. How're you holding up man? We haven't talked much since…you know"

It's Varric's turn to down a beer. "I keep going over it in my head, again and again. There were no signs, Hawke, no indications…I still don't know why he did it"

"Mustv'e been all that lyrium. Got to him somehow. I heard that this one time, a guy-"

"Dwarves are immune to lyrium"

"Oh, right. I knew that. I guess maybe he was just a greedy bastard." She catches herself, sheepishly scratching the back of her head. "I'm sorry Varric, that was thoughtless of me"

"S'alright. We're drinking, it's allowed." Hawke looks over to see Varric staring steadfastly into the fire. "A greedy bastard." He enunciates the words like he's tasting them, a revelation that's bitter on the tongue. "My brother is a greedy bastard"

"You two are about the most depressing drinkers I have ever seen"

Hawke and Varric simultaneously turn to see Isabella perched on a barstool on the other side of the table.

"How long have you been there?"

"I've been here the entiiire time. Let me tell you, I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing. At least until the end when everything got sad and depressing"

"Wasn't the door locked…?"

"Really? I could pick that lock in my sleep. I made some noise doing it, but you didn't even hear me bring in the stool." She climbs languidly to her feet, sighing like a schoolteacher who has found two students smoking during recess. "You two are sad, I get that. We've all been there. But you're really doing this drinking thing all wrong"

"What are you talking about?"

"All I'm saying is that if you want to feel better, you're drinking the wrong thing"

She clears away the beer bottles, prompting a "hey!" from Hawke, which is more activity than she has engaged in in hours. In place of the beer, Isabella places a large green bottle onto the stone surface.

Varric's breath leaves him. "Is that…"

Isabella nods, smiling gleefully as she holds the bottle over a stained glasses, slowly pouring emerald green liquid until it delicately splashes along the very top. Slowly, carefully, she hands the glass to Hawke.

"Will you do the honors?"

Hawke accepts it, looking dubiously into the remarkably clear depth. She looks up at Isabella, feeling her inhibition crumble in the face of that saucy grin.

Her hand lifts almost by its own volition. "I wasn't kidding before," says Hawke, already knowing that she's going to drink, "you make me stupid"

Isabella takes the hand that hold the glass in her own, delicately raising it so that it's poised at Hawke's lips. "And you, gorgeous, you make me smart." Isabella and Hawke tip the contents of the glass into Hawke's mouth.

The alcohol is a searing explosion against her taste buds, curdling like acid all the way down her throat. But Hawke does not grimace, looking into Isabella's eyes the entire time until, faintly, and then strongly, electricity begins to boil at the base of her very being.

"What the hell is in that stuff?"

Isabella opens her mouth to answer, but it happens in slow motion, blurring in and out of focus like Hawke is watching through distorted glass. Her limbs feel warm, but energized, tingling with sudden invigoration, rousing her body from depressed ennui.

Isabella is still talking, her lips are moving but Hawke can't hear her through the haze.

Hawke laughs, "Whut?"

Isabella smiles at her goofy expression. "You silly goose, it's-"

Hawke surges forward, grabbing her doppelganger's face and dragging her into a sloppy kiss.

"By the maker I feel so alive!"

The pirate giggles, neither of them noticing Varric pouring and downing his own glass. "There's a good girl," she says, caressing Hawke's face.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Waking up naked with Isabella is not as alarming as it once was. In fact Hawke isn't even mildly perturbed. She doesn't have to open her eyes, familiar with the feel and warmth of Isabella draped over her body. It's practically habit by now really; a shameful habit, a nasty habit, but still, sadly a habit.

She opens a single eye.

A cursory glance of her surroundings reveals this is not her home, nor is it Isabella's room in the Hanged Man, nor is it even the apartment of the Blooming Rose (thank the Maker). Her eye stings as the sunlight shines through a nearby window.

"Argh"

She sits up, the blanket pooling at her waist. Isabella grabs for it in her sleep, hogging the covers to ward away Kirkwall's cold. They're lying on a mattress that likely was dragged there recently, differing greatly from the extravagance of the room itself. A closer look reveals that everything is in a state of dilapidation, wrapped in thin coats of dust. The whereabouts of her clothes is a mystery.

Hawke eyes a Tevinter idol in the corner, and groans. She knows whose house this is.

She leaves Isabella in the room, blissfully ensconced in more blankets than anyone needs to stay warm. Hawke covers herself with a sheet, padding through the cold stone floor of the mansion. To her puzzlement there are men and women lining the hall in various states of passed-out. A few girls from the blooming rose, Carta dwarves, a few guardsmen, some elves from Athenril's gang, and oh, there's Athenril herself snoring in the arms of Lady Elegant.

The foyer is the messiest, littered with the unconscious bodies of people Hawke only sort of knows. She steps over them, gingerly making her way to the study just in time to see Fenris drag a giggling, hairy giant of a man, and dump him into the foyer.

"Ah, I see you're awake"

Hawke plops onto one of the couches of his study, where they are alone. "What happened last night?"

He takes a seat on the couch opposite. "Last night you and Isabella showed up uninvited and brought all these…people with you." His gaze is surprisingly unhostile, calm.

"I did?"

"You did"

"I'm surprised to be alive then"

He shrugs. "I figured you were drunk, or otherwise inebriated. Isabella was with you so I can only assume it was due to her negative influence"

"You have no idea"

Fenris smiles at her. It is not much of one, a grudging amusement really, but it is a smile. "If you weren't my employer I might have killed you for ruining my house"

"Yes. About that. Sorry"

He waves his hand. "It was already in poor condition"

"I'll pay for any damages"

"Already squandering your money eh? What happened to taking over the lyrium trade?"

"Maker, how did you find out about that?"

Fenris points behind him with his thumb, "Varric told me." Hawke follows his thumb to Varric passed out on top of a pile of books, clinging to Bianca and grinning like a madman.

"What happened to him?"

"Last night he was yelling that if anyone had a hairier chest than he did ,he would give them one thousand sovereigns. That man I just dragged out almost won"

Hawke leans back, closing her eyes and lapsing into a state of relaxation. She hasn't been able to relax since getting out of the Deep Roads. It is most cathartic. "I can't do anything about the lyrium trade right now. I have the money, but I don't have the means"

"And the Red Irons are finished, from what I've been hearing"

Hawke opens her eyes. "Not finished. Not entirely. I still have a few men, and the elves in the Alienage"

"But no-one else"

"True, I have a plan to rectify that which, incidentally, will require your help"

"Oh? What do you have in mind?"

"I'll show you…just not now. Let me sit here for a while. You got any food?"

"I suggest you go to your own house for that"

"Ugh, fine," she makes as if to get to her feet.

"But you're not going anywhere until you help me get these people out of my house"

Hawke makes a long frustrated sigh, slumping back into the chair.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Building an army is no easy business, and while Hawke has had some experience doing it, she has never had to build one from scratch. After all, she had inherited the Red Irons from Meeran, and all additions after that were the result of alliances and recruitment.

It was a shaky foundation to her vast organization, and perhaps because of this her empire had fallen so quickly. If she wants to keep doing business then she had to do it smart, which means making investments; playing with money. Her brain had always been her greatest weapon, and somewhere along the line the brute power afforded her by blood magic made her forget that.

Well no longer.

She immediately goes about fixing up her properties, grudgingly raising the rent to earn better revenue from the refugees. It is sad, but still a better deal than many of those people will ever get. After that she buys up businesses. Fishing, textiles, a mine called the Bone Pit; pretty much anything she can think of, anything to get more money coming in.

But Kirkwall is a dangerous place, and if anyone wants to be powerful there they have to have more than just some business interests. What she needs is more muscle. Mercenaries are fine, as are elvish thieves and assassins, but for what Hawke has in mind, there has to be a bigger impact. She has to send everyone a message; that she is not to be messed with. And since apparently killing a whole bunch of Coterie isn't a viable option (yet) she has to settle for something else.

Which is why she is currently at the Wounded Coast with Aveline and Fenris.

"This is a terrible idea"

"Don't be so negative. I brought an interpreter"

"Is that supposed to be me?" asks Fenris, "because I also think this is a bad idea"

"I didn't ask you to criticize my plans! Just…tell them what I'm saying alright?"

"Fine"

It is with a sigh and a weary heart that Aveline follows Hawke and Fenris into the Tal Vashoth camp, whereupon they are greeted, to the surprise of nobody, with immediate hostility.

The first group of Tal Vashoth, a trio of spear-brandishing giants, are knocked harmlessly away with a gravity well.

"Tell them we come in peace Fenris!"

"I did!"

"Tell them louder!"

"Argh!" He shouts out a string of unintelligible syllables, to no effect. One of the Ta Vashoth scrambles to his feet and lunges, only Fenris to catch his wrists. The elf backhands the former Qunari, shouting the syllables like a litany, over and over in his face.

The impact catches the Tal Vashoth's attention, and as his fellows are rushing to attack he holds up his hand to stop them.

And to Aveline's surprise they actually do stop, slowing to a halt at his side. Other Tal Vashoth scramble into the clearing, running down from the hills and sprinting along the sand, surrounding them on all sides with swords and spears at the ready. They withhold from attacking though, following the example of their pacific contemporary. Their faces betray no emotion, but Hawke gets the impression that they are confused.

The peace-calling Tal Vashoth stands to full height, dwarfing Fenris. He utters something in Qunlat, raising his spear.

"What does he say?"

"He wants to know why you have sought out the Tal Vashoth"

"Tell him I came to offer them a new purpose"

"What? Are you crazy!?"

"Just tell him!"

"It's stupid!"

"FENRIS!"

"Fine!"

He shouts Hawke's message.

The Tal Vashoth quiet down, becoming unsettlingly still. The sound of the breeze is audible over the stillness as all of them intently watch Hawke. Aveline nudges her.

"By Andraste" she whispers, leaning in so that not even Fenris can hear them," how the fuck did you know that would work?"

"I guessed," Hawke whispers back.

Aveline nudges her again, harder this time. "What!?" she hisses, "you guessed?"

"It was an educated guess. Now shut up! Something's happening"

Their feverish whispering is cut short as one towering Tal Vashoth pushes his way through the crowd. He steps forward, moving in odd halting motions that belie the elegant strides of his race, until he stands directly before Hawke. He wears the encumbering garment of a Serabaas, iron collar chained fast to his shoulders. The only things that mark him as a rebellious Tal Vashoth are his fully-grown horns.

Aveline makes to draw her sword, but Hawke stills her hand.

"How arrogant must you be," rumbles the Serabaas, "to think you can give Tal Vashoth purpose?"

"I'm surprised. A Serabaas"

"That is a title that no longer applies to me"

"Then what should I call you?"

"I am Tal Vashoth"

"Well that is what the Qunari would call you. They would also call you Serabaas. Can I call you that, so long as you still allow them to name you even in rebellion?"

The Serabaas makes a displeased grunt. "Why have you come here?"

"I have already said: I want to give you purpose"

"What purpose?"

Hawke runs her gaze over the ranks of ragged former-Qunari, turning around and showing the Serabaas her back, showing the Tal Vashoth that she isn't afraid of him. Finally she turns back to him. "You are weak," she says, gesturing to the lot of them, "No match for the Antaam, even in your numbers. The Arishok will eventually destroy all of you, the Ben Hasrath will either reeducate or kill you, either way they will not be merciful"

"We know this"

"You are Tal Vashoth!" She yells, nudging Fenris to translate. "You waste away in the wild with no purpose, no organization; no better than savages with a purpose no greater that stealing like common bandits!" Hawke spits for effect.

Fenris hesitates, looking at Hawke with unbridled incredulity. She cocks her head, widening her eyes at him with angry insistence. Unable to believe what he is doing, Fenris shouts out the translation. The Tal Vashoth begin to growl, murmuring angrily amongst themselves; too civilized by far, even in exile.

Hawke goes on. "You are weak! But if you join me I can give you a purpose, strength! Outside the Qun! Join me and you can be strong!"

The Serabaas looks to his murmuring brethren before finally, and with a ponderous finality, falling his eyes back on Hawke. "Let us talk, crazy human"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Naturally it takes more than just a speech to get the Tal Vashoth on her side. Nothing is that easy, sadly. She has to sit down with the Serabaas, as well as a great deal of Tal Vashoth sitting on the sidelines, hacking out some kind of mutually-beneficial deal. On the first day she returns to Kirkwall empty-handed, but she persists, dragging Fenris back to the Wounded Coast every day to hack out a deal.

She offers food, shelter, women, briefly thinks about giving them money then thinks better of it. The Tal-Vashoth grow accustomed to her presence, regarding her almost as if she were an over-eager little girl. The smarter ones remeber how she killed their brethren, and leave her alone.

It isn't until she actually brings them samples of what they can enjoy in her organization that they relent. Fine cooking, new weapons, trinkets, baubles, and some toys that she doesn't tell them are for children. Of course the toys are a hit. They sit down to negotiate.

In the end, not all of them are on board, but Hawke returns to Kirkwall with a retinue of forty Tal Vashoth, confident that more will follow. She puts them in well-spaced housing, constructed outside of Kirkwall near the mountains, and well away from the Qunari compound at the docks.

They are supplied with plenty of food, and material goods to keep them satisfied, hiring a requisition officer among her merchants to keep them satisfied. In return, not only does she have a strong armed force at the ready, but also a status symbol. She outfits them and promenades them across Hightown, lording them over the lords and ladies like giant hulking trophies.

And ah! How nice it is to see the jealousy in their faces, their slow realization that the return of the Amells means more than the return of an old family, but also the arrival of a powerful new contender.

Everybody knew that Hawke found untold riches in the Deep Roads, but other than that she was shrouded in mystery. To the nobles of Kirkwall, it was rather like finding out that the new kid on the block had a hand in the machinations of the city all along. Rumors of her underworld dealings spread like wildfire. Her alliance with the Carta, her prominence in Lowtown and the Alienage in particular; there are even whisperings behind closed doors that she employs apostates hidden in the sewers.

But these are usually dismissed. I mean can you imagine? How ridiculous.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Tolliver the net-maker is being shaken down. It isn't out of the ordinary, but it is always a nuisance, especially since every single thug that extorts protection money from him and his neighbors comes from a different racket. This makes the other extortionists mad, and so they beat him up and he has to pay them too, which means the original extortionists beat him up.

Who would bother over the Fereldan quarter of Kirkwall anyway? This town of beggars and refugees? Not even the Coterie likes sticking its business in there, precisely because there is little business to be had.

The people Tolliver pays protection to are the lowest of the low; scumbags too dirty and pathetic to be part of an actual gang. There are, however, a lot of them, and they fight tooth and nail for every scrap of territory they can get.

"What's this?" asks the brawny gentleman, holding up a pair of copper coins. Three smaller thugs shuffle their feet at his back.

"That's all I have for this week"

"Can't be. What about the money you set aside to feed your family? Give me that"

"I can't. That's really all I made in the last two days"

Smack! A meaty fist thuds into Tolliver's left eye, cutting the skin and throwing him to the ground. It'll swell up nasty in a few minutes, but it's nothing Tolliver isn't already used to.

"Are you giving me lip, net-boy?" the smaller thugs poke him with their feet. "If I wanted your attitude I would ask you for it!"

Tolliver curls up on the floor as a foot, he isn't sure whose, connects with his midsection. Not for the first time he thinks that maybe he should have stayed in Fereldan. At least there he would be dead and not have to suffer indignity upon indignity. Then again, this is probably only marginally better than having his face eaten off by darkspawn, there is that.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Yeah? Well apparently not sorry enough if all you could scrounge up for me is two lousy coppers." Another kick to his midsection. The smaller cronies wince in sympathy, but don't dare signal their disapproval. Survival in the poor quarters of Kirkwall means tailing your wagon to some brutal stars.

"Tell you what Tolliver. We'll settle this. I can be reasonable. I'll just have to take something of yours of commensurate value to the protection we're providing." A chuckle. The cronies nervously chuckle along. "So what've ya got Tolliver?"

"N-nothing…I have nothing"

"Now, now. I'm sure that's not true. One of my boys followed you home the other night, y'see. Seems you have a nice sword hanging over your mantelpiece. I could take that. Or those books you got. Or maybe…maybe I could take your sister. Tevinters ought to pay good money for her"

"Wait, what? You can't be serious." A punch to the jaw, knocking out several teeth.

"Dead serious, boyo"

"Come on," whispers Tolliver, voice slurring from a swollen cheek. "Please…I can get you the money. Really I can. Just…just give me more time"

"Seems to me you've been given plenty of time already." Tolliver is hauled up to his feet, "C'mon now, let's take a walk shall we?"

Tolliver struggles, but is given a smart punch to the gut. He folds, unable to resist as they haul him through the back alleys of the slum. His neighbor storekeepers look ahead, forcing themselves to ignore what's happening. He knows better than to ask for help, and they no better than to offer it. His feet trail against the dirty cobblestones, skin scraping raw against the grit of old cobbles. He is carried slack, his head hanging low, his eye swelling already.

A feeling of true and utter hopelessness hits him, unlike any despair he has felt before. Every person, no matter how strong, have their breaking point. It is with little shame that sobs leak out of his throat, emotion erupting from his chest and amplifying in the form of a few tears sliding down his cheek, leaving trails in his dirt-stricken face.

When they stop, it doesn't occur to him that they haven't walked nearly far enough to have arrived at his house. It's only when the big man opens his mouth that he realizes something strange is going on.

"Get out of the way, elf"

Elf? Here? Tolliver lifts his head to the sight of a very finely-dressed young man standing primly in their way. He wouldn't call the stranger an elf per-se, but certainly elf-like. He possesses the delicate beauty inherent in most elves; large eyes and perfectly hairless face. The only thing missing is the pointy ears.

"Why?" asks the not-quite-elf, "Am I interrupting something?"

"He's dressed nice, boss," says one of the men holding Tolliver's arm, "might have some cash on 'im"

The big man smiles. "Is that right? You got money on you, knife-ear? Master been rewarding you a little too much for services rendered?" He laughs. If the stranger is afraid, or even offended, he shows no sign. He even smiles.

The big man grimaces at the lack of intimidation. "What you smiling about boy?"

All of the big man's bravado disappears as soon as two hulking Qunari step out from a side alleyway. The big man may be big, but the Qunari are massive; their domineering presence amplified by the light of the alley giving them the appearance of demonic silhouettes. Tolliver's eyes boggle at the sight.

The elf smiles again, lifting his finger as if remembering a point he had forgotten to mention earlier. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Feynriel, from the Hawke Coalition, new owners of the refugee slums." One of the Qunari cracks his knuckles. "I suggest you put the man down, sers. The Coalition provides protection in these neighborhoods now"

The littler thugs waste no time dropping Tolliver and running with all speed in the other direction. Their boss hesitates, which is all the Ta Vashoth need to rush over and pin him to a wall.

"Please take this one to the new headquarters," says Feynriel, getting a simple nod in reply from one of the Tal Vashoth, "there;sa use for everything after all, even trash." It jostles the big man away from the wall and walks him down the length of the alley, keeping a painful grip on his wrists.

The elf helps up Tolliver, "Are you alright?"

"Y-yes," Tolliver loses his balance, grabbing a fistful of Feynriel's tunic to keep up, "No. Haven't eaten in a while"

"Here," says Feynriel, lifting Tolliver again. When the human is on his feet, Feynriel purses his lips at the dust staining on his clothes. Oh well. Shrugging, he pulls out a purse and hands Tolliver a few silvers.

"What? I…what's going on?"

Feynriel straightens to a businessman's posture. "Nothing at all. The Coalition is merely looking out for the best interests of our new partners"

"Partners?"

"Oh yes," Feynriel smiles, "Isabelle Hawke has some big plans for this neighborhood"

"I…wha?"

Tolliver slumps to the ground.

"Oh dear. He's passed out. Do you think we could-?" The remaining Tal Vashoth heaves a sigh and easily throws Tolliver over his shoulder. "There we go. Be careful with this one. If we want this to work then we need allies in the community"

"Whatever," drawls the Tal Vashoth.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Nobles gossip too much, Merrill thinks. They are out in force, as if they don't have houses and taverns in which to congregate and gossip. Their talk dwindles into conspiratorial muttering as she gets close, but she can still hear them, and the subject on everybody's tongue is Isabelle Hawke.

"Her servant, do you think?"

"No, no. That's a Dalish. Don't you see the markings?"

"What do you think she's doing here?"

Merrill ignores them for the most part, until a new discussion rises from a huddled trio of oddly swarthy-looking nobles.

"I heard she has a lover. A pirate," says the first.

"A pirate?"

"Yes, yes." Says the third, "I heard that the pirate was actually her twin sister. Looks exactly like her"

"Now, now. An incestuous relationship with her twin sister who is also a pirate? That is too ridiculous"

"Perhaps," admits the third. "But this Hawke is a mystery, and they say that where there's smoke there's fire"

Merrill's ears burn, not because of the scandalous nature of the discussion but because she knows exactly what they are talking about. It's not like Hawke was doing a very good job of hiding it, and Isabella, though hesitant to tell Merrill anything about her romantic escapades involving Hawke, became remarkably loose-lipped when plied with enough alcohol.

What she heard was heart-breaking. Isabella's mumbles assertions that what they had wasn't serious didn't help assuage Merrill's despondency.

A smiling Bodahn lets her into the house, but asks her to wait in the library while Hawke finishes a meeting in the study. This too is easy to overhear. Perhaps Merrill's ears are simply too sensitive.

"What did you come to me for Ser Sauffren?" Hawke's voice is clear eve muffle. Her desk must be right on the other side of the fireplace.

"I have heard that you make loans to people who need them"

"I am hardly the only money-lender in Kirkwall"

"Yes, but you are an unknown, and being unknown means you are likely discrete"

"Perhaps"

"Also…I am not so desperate that I would go to the Coterie"

"Hmm." A pause. A comment like that would win him favor, though Merrill doubts he knows that. She can envision Hawke turning to some documents on the table, glasses perched on her nose. Purely for show of course, Hawke's vision is perfect. "How many sovereigns did you need?"

"Seven thousand"

A low whistle, "That is a lot of gold. Care to tell me what it's for?"

"I…I would rather not"

Another pause. Hawke is likely staring at the man, making him uncomfortable, leaning back ad crossing her legs like the Carta bosses do. Maybe she sighs, shakes her head, tsks in a chastising manner. Finally: "I have heard of you Sauffren. The merchants in Lowtown know you as a man of integrity. I will give you this money, and I won't even insist that you tell me what it's for"

"I'm grateful"

"Not so fast." A thump. Has Hawke slammed a fist on the table? Thumped the end of her staff to the ground? "I have some conditions. I'll give you the money. But if you cannot pay me back in a month, with interest…well, I am a loan shark. I'm sure you can imagine what I'll do then"

"O-of course"

"Consider yourself grounded as well. Don't try to leave the city while carrying my money. I'll have people watching you"

"A-alright"

A relaxing of the shoulders. We're all friends here. "Relax Ser Sauffren. I won't do anything untoward if you can't pay. I won't break your ones or kill your family. But I will take your house, and it is a nice house indeed. Easily worth twice what I'm lending you. So…" a clear of the throat, "Anyway. If you'll sign this contract…"

"Erm, yes. Of course"

"And sign there…and initial there. Thank you, happy doing business with you"

The doors open in the next room, and Merrill hurries into the hallway, just in time to watch an ashen-faced nobleman shamble out of the office. Hawke stands smiling in the doorway, the hulking Serabaas glowering behind her like a bodyguard. The finery of his clothes do not suit him very well; paired with his horns he looks more like a litigious devil than a Coalition Lieutenant.

And behind him is a young elf woman making furious notes in a journal.

Hawke brightens at the sight of her friend. "Merrill! When did you get here?"

"Just now. Er, are you busy? I can come back later if you want"

"What?" Hawke follows Merrill's gaze to the odd twosome behind her, "Oh, no, not busy at all. Please stay, things have been so hectic. I haven't seen you in forever!"

She turns to dismiss the Serabaas, who simply nods and walks out of the room and house, presumably to venture all the way back to what the people are calling the Coalition Qunari Compound. Hawke is always quick to point out that it is a Tal Vashoth compound, but sadly not many people really see the difference.

The elf making notes continues to do just that: make notes.

"Flora?" says Hawke, sighing as the elf still goes on writing, "Flora? The meeting's over, you can stop transcribing now"

The pen hesitates. Flora looks up with wide doe eyes. "W-what? Really?" She takes stalk of her surroundings, straightening at the sight of Merill. "Oh! I….yes of course, how foolish of me." She gathers her things, depositing the journal in a shelf back in Hawke's office. She bows excessively as she leaves the manor, making vague placating noises. As the door opens Merrill can see that the Serabaas is outside waiting for her.

More or less alone, the two of them walk back into the library. Hawke beckons for Bodahn to make some tea. After taking a seat she looks at Merrill, meeting her eyes for a few seconds before smiling pleasantly.

"Well? What do you think of the new house? Mother has been over the moon! Decorating and rearranging; it's driving me mad! And Carver even came down to visit." Hawke laughs, breaking her usual protocol and swinging a leg over the arm of the couch. Bodahn brings them both a cup of tea and departs.

"It's nice," says Merrill, pleasantly surprised at Hawke's odd joviality. "You seem…different"

"Do I? I suppose I'm just in my element," she springs to her feet, pacing excitedly, "I mean, things were pretty bad for a moment there, but I've rallied! Don't you think I've rallied?"

"Sure," Merrill laughs.

Hawke plops down on the couch right next to Merrill. "I'm sorry. I've been talking about myself. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Not really. I just wanted to see you"

"Oh Merrill, you are too sweet." She laughs a little, "One year ago we would have been at your house reviewing your blood forms. Do you remember that?"

"When it was just the two of us and no Feynriel? Yes, I loved those times most of all"

"Wanted me all to yourself did you?" Hawke laughs again, unheeding of Merrill's bashful grin. She quiets down, leaning her head against the back of the couch and gazing in an oddly soulful manner into Merrill's eyes. "I miss our little lessons. Sometimes I feel bad that I don't have anything left to teach you…"

"Maybe I could teach you a few things sometime"

Hawke perks up, "Oh?"

"Yes. Would you like that?"

"Yes! Absolutely! I feel like without the lessons I never get to see you anymore, so…" Hawke waves her hand bashfully, "you know what I mean"

"Yes. I do. How about now?"

"What?"

"A lesson. I have one ready for you now"

Really, Merrill thinks, for all of Hawke's maturity, and for all of Hawke's intelligence, she sure can be childish. Gullible, adorable, (Argh) but childish. This is especially frustrating since Hawke has regarded Merrill as a child for as long as they have known each other. Being student and teacher certainly hadn't helped in that regard, but Merrill had graduated as it were. Hawke had said as much.

She ushers Hawke to the desk, moving in a dazed autopilot, beckoning for the human woman to take a seat. She draws a diagram on a piece of parchment. She leans over, just barely restraining herself from running her hands over the contours of Hawke's inviting shoulders.

"Do you recognize these symbols?"

"I don't"

"They're Dalish." She leans over, casually placing a hand on Hawke's shoulder so that her arm is effectively around her.

"Oh I can see it now, they're like you're tattoos." Hawke turns her head, her smile faltering a little when she realizes that Merrill's face is so close. Merrill doesn't react, looking intently at the parchment. Hawke hesitantly looks to the parchment as well. "What do you call it?" she asks, "vallaslin?"

"Yes. These are the designs found in blood writing"

"What do they say?"

There are simpler ways to seduce people. Yes, indeed there are. But when it comes to Hawke, Merrill can never be too sure. The woman has a way of ruthlessly shutting down romantic advances, and there are very few of those. Despite her beauty, not many people try anything with her; if they aren't intimidated by her power (be it magical or financial), then they're intimidated by the sheer force of her attitude. In fact, of all the people who tried doing anything with Hawke, the only one who ever succeeded was Isabella.

But then again Hawke acts weird around Isabella. Really weird. That whole relationship is weird.

So…maybe weird is the way to go.

"This symbol," says Merril, gently guiding Hawke's finger to a curving figure, "is the image for fire in the old tongue." She guides Hawke's hand to another symbol, "This is water. And this…this is-"

"Earth?"

Merrill's eyelids lower, "No," she mutters, "that is the symbol for lust"

The elder mage stiffens ever so slightly, "What kind of spell is this?"

"A dalish one," whispers Merrill, keeping her voice low, intimate, "now pay attention"

Hake falters, her mood shifting from optimistic joviality to hesitant confusion. This is…different than what she is used to; different than what she has come to expect in Merrill.

"O-okay"

If Merrill didn't know Hawke so very well then this would have been terribly difficult to pull off. She knows that Hawke is socially awkward; often using peripheral aspects of her personality to relate to other people to shield herself from rejection. Business is a suitable tool after all; a reason for people to rely on her, to respect her. But in Merrill's case it had been their lessons. And without the lessons, Hawke didn't have an excuse to spend time with her, had no idea how to approach her in a casual context. So she didn't. Couldn't. Not as of late.

Truth be told, Hawke is a hopelessly shy person.

Why is Merrill the only one who sees that?

"And this symbol here is the image for affection"

"Okay…" Hawke swallows, and Merrill feels a surge of vindication at so thoroughly knocking the wind from the older woman's sails. "Merrill you seem, um," she shifts uncomfortably, stiffening almost imperceptibly when her shoulder grazes Merrill's chest, "different"

"I'm not sure what you could mean"

"Jeez, you're…I don't know how to put it. You're being very…adult, I guess?"

"I am an adult, Hawke," Merrill says, a bit testily.

"I, y-yeah, I didn't mean to imply-," she turns, visibly surprised when she sees Merrill leaning over her, meeting her gaze with an unusual intensity. Their faces are so close. "-that you…were…" She gulps again. "Um…"

Merrill raises her hand to delicately cup Hawke's chin. Hawke doesn't look away, doesn't react; just keeps Merrill's gaze. She seems surprised, but pliant, lips opening in an "oh" of either surprise or realization. And as Merrill lowers her face closer to Hawke's, she can't help but marvel at the way Hawke's eyelids seem to flutter unconsciously closed.

Is that a go-ahead?

It doesn't matter. Merrill closes the distance between Hawke's lips and hers, pressing them softly together. It is a spectacular sensation, and for a few seconds Merrill is over the moon, until she realizes that Hawke isn't kissing her back.

She backs away, waiting for Hawke to open her eyes. When she does they look at each other, Merrill's face barely betraying her impatient expectation.

"Merrill…"

The elf takes her hand. "Let me show you something, Hawke"

She leads her away, out of the study through the main hall, up the stairs where Leandra watches, hidden in her own room, as her daughter awkwardly, diffidently, is led by the smaller elf into the main bedroom.

Sleeping with Isabella is one thing. Animal. Instinctual. Familiar. This is…this is…

Merrill reaches up for another kiss, pulling them down onto the bed.

"Isabelle…"

This is…

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Isabella shoots up in bed, the prostitute beside her bolting upright.

"What? What is it?"

Isabella takes a few deep breaths.

"I…nothing. Just a really weird dream." She shakes her head vigorously, as if trying to get water out of her ears.

After a moment's consideration she fishes out a few silvers from the bedside drawer.

"Be a darling and fetch me some whiskey will you? If anyone bothers you, just say you work for the Coalition"

As the prostitute leaves Isabella falls back onto the bed in a huff.

"What the balls was that?"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Hawke wishes the world would stand still for a few seconds to make some goddamn sense. She leans against the upper railing of some noble's mansion, looking down from the gilded entrance at the gathered masses. Merrill would probably hate this as much as she does.

Merrill…

Hawke's mind wanders, naturally recalling images of her former student leaning over her, guiding her, kissing her; her face so uncharacteristically serious. She whispered her name over and over as she ran her hands over Hawke's naked body, repeating each syllable like a mantra: Isabelle, Isabelle. It was like…

Hawke had never felt so…worshipped.

Loved?

Merrill never said as much, ravishing her teacher until Hawke was too tired to do anything but sleep. When she woke up Merrill was gone.

Hawke blushes at the memory. How had she never noticed? Why had she let Merrill get as far as she did? She thinks about seeing Merrill again and shivers. Will it be awkward? Will they have sex again?

Does Hawke even like Merrill that way?

She decides to put it out of her mind. Thinking about Merrill is only going to make spending time here even less enjoyable. Her eyes refocus; the crowds of fawning nobility below her make her skin crawl, dancing and smiling and hiding behind dainty epithets and money. She hates them all, but tolerates them for two reasons.

Reason number one: Leandra.

Hawke has never seen her like this before, so very much in her element. She had always told Hawke and her siblings that she never regretted leaving the gilded trappings of the Amell household to be with Malcolm, but watching her now, talking excitedly to a circle of nobles all hanging on her every word, Hawke can't help but think that maybe some small part of Leandra was lying the entire time.

Well, whatever.

Hawke smiles. Seeing her mother happy is always a good thing. Leandra catches her eye from across the room and waves, beckoning for her to come over. Hawke waves back, shaking her head that no, she would rather not.

Leandra huffs, beckoning more aggressively. With a resigned groan Hawke puts on a forced smile and makes her way over.

"Isabelle, I want you to meet," she lists off a bunch of names that Hawke will soon forget. She's already memorized all the names in this room worth knowing, and none of these people are them.

They are all extremely interested in Hawke's exploits, asking her if some of the tales of her adventures are true. Hawke musters as much charm as she can, not for their benefit but her mother's.

"I assure you, I did not kill three dragons. Just one"

"No, I am in no way associated with the Carta"

"Thank you, sir. I actually found these earrings in an old thaig in the Deep Roads beneath the Northern Mountains. No, I'm not kidding"

"You surprise me, I didn't know anyone knew about how I killed all those people"

Finally Leandra takes pity on her and signals that she is allowed to go. Hawke excuses herself most courteously and moves with all speed away from the crowd. She bristles as she hears Leandra admonish a young man for watching her posterior too attentively.

Craving more agreeable company, she seeks out the members of tonight's entourage, seeking comfort in their mutual discomfort.

Reason number two: business.

"Why have you made me come here? There is nothing to gain except for perhaps the food." Serabaas holds up a piece of cloth that Hawke recognizes as a torn piece of the house's drapes, crudely re-fashioned into a sack to carry a ludicrous amount of cookies. "You must have more of these made for the compound"

"Put that away," she hisses. He easily conceals it into his robes, not at all perturbed by her apparent ire. "And I had you come here because you are one of my lieutenants. This is PR"

"P…R?"

"Public relations. It's…nevermind. Just walk around and try to look intimidating"

He growls. "So I am to parade myself about like a tamed animal, to show the other humans that you have conquered a great Qunari. Is that it?"

"Yes. Obviously. That's the point. And if you do this for me I'll make you all the cookies you want. There's more than one kind and they're all delicious." Serabaas hesitates, visibly torn between his pride and his newfound obsession with crumbly treats. "Besides, what do you care what a bunch of humans think anyway?"

Serabaas considers his sack of cookies, taking a few out and throwing them in his mouth. He grumbles. In great staggering motions he moves back into the throng, glowering dramatically at the nobles as they make a wide berth for his passage. Any who try actually talking to him are given the silent treatment. The Hawke coat of arms is boldly displayed on his robes.

"He's remarkably agreeable for a Qunari"

Hawke turns to her second apprentice, now Anders' apprentice she supposes. "Qunari are people who follow the Qun. Serabaas is a Tal Vashoth"

Feynriel grimaces. "You know what I mean"

"How've you been doing?"

"There are a remarkable number of nobles in dire financial straits, and they are more than ready to talk to a representative from the Coalition, elf or no"

"You're taking to this much easier than I thought"

"Yes, well. Making deals is easy when you know how to talk to people. That, and if you have a couple Qunari bodyguards behind you. Sorry, Tal Vashoth bodyguards"

"Don't sell yourself short. You've a talent for this. And you have no idea how short a supply of able-minded lieutenants I have"

He smiles bashfully, actually kicking at the floor. "Thanks boss. I'll write up a report for everything I learned here tonight"

"Good. You can go home if you want"

"If it's all the same to you, I'm going to stick around for a while"

"Getting a taste for Kirkwall's finer elements? Take care you don't get spoiled"

Feynriel's eyes drift across the room. Hawke follows his gaze to a beautiful woman in a gorgeous evening dress. She's hanging off the arm of an overweight noble, stuffed with hor d'ourves and half asleep on his feet. Her fingers wiggle in a saucy wave in Feynriel's direction.

"You could say that"

Hawke wants to laugh and grimace at the same time. "Bah. Off with you, horny elf!"

"Yes boss!"

Hawke sighs, ready to leave the party and settle down on her favorite armchair with a cup of Bodahn's tea. Ah, yes. That would be spectacular. With the relief of a person who knows they're done with the day, Hawke makes her way through the throng, grabbing a drink from a passing tray and sipping it, stepping gingerly up the stairs as she does so.

"Serah Hawke"

A hand takes her wrist, though not tightly, and it easily lets go when she yanks her hand back. A handsome man with green eyes and dark clothes smiles at her from the foot of the stairs.

"Do I know you? And please don't say "no, but I know you""

The man chuckles, an affable, charming laughter. "Then I won't. Though truth be told I really do not know you." His voice is deep, skewed. An Antivan accent. "I thought that perhaps I did, though I am pleased to be proved wrong"

If he expects a coy response then he is disappointed, smiling a tad awkwardly at Hawke's unamused glare.

He clears his throat, "You look lovely tonight, Lady Hawke. That dress suits you"

"Thank you, ser, though I disdain having to wear it"

"This I can understand. My own clothes reflect poorly on my taste, no? I much prefer these unremarkable blacks to the ostentatious plumage of the nobility"

Despite herself Hawke chuckles, "Indeed. What did you say your name was again?" She offers a hand.

He takes it, bowing and planting a kiss on her knuckles, though not lingering for long enough that she has reason to take offense. "I didn't, though I will happily do so now. My name is Castillon"

Fireworks go off in Hawke's head, though she maintains her composure. Her smile is only marginally affected. "I have heard that name before"

"Oh? All good things I hope"

"Nothing too terrible." She sips her drink, keeping a severe eye on the Antivan's expression. "Earlier you said you thought you knew me. What did you mean by that?"

It's his turn to hide his true expression. "Oh, you know. I meet many women in my travels, many beautiful women. You bear a passing resemblance to one"

"Indeed? What brings you to Kirkwall, Castillon?"

"Oh, just here for the weekend actually, there's a-" He is interrupted when a tune starts playing, violins and cellos harmonizing to coax the nobility onto the dance floor. Castillon smiles at her, holding an inviting hand. "Could I interest you in a dance?"

At that moment Serabaas tromps his way through the crowd, uncaring of how many people he jostles, finally coming to a stop behind Hawke.

"I am done here…" he eyes Castillon, "boss," he hisses the word, "the noises do not agree with me"

Castillon's composure cracks somewhat, and his mouth flops open for half a second before he regains himself. "You keep interesting company, my lady"

Hawke smiles at the Antivan. "I apologize, but I must decline your offer. My associate here is feeling a little under the weather"

"Of course. Until next time, Lady Hawke." He bows.

Castillon retreats into the crowd, already finding a dance partner in a young noble girl. Serabaas and Hawke watch him go.

"Who was that?" asks the former Tal Vashoth.

"Friend of a friend"

Turning, she ascends the stairs, Serabaas tromping after her. She nods at her guards as she passes, men and women with concealed weapons, dressed in finery for the express purpose of surreptitiously keeping an eye on her less combat-oriented affiliates.

"Will you be killing this "friend of a friend?""

Perceptive bugger. "Why do you ask?"

"I recognize that expression. You want that man dead"

"Castillon? Yeah, I do"


End file.
